


Actions Rather Than Words

by moritz



Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: American History, American Revolution, Angst, Blood, Gun Violence, History, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revolutionary War, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moritz/pseuds/moritz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>rev·o·lu·tion<br/>/ˌrevəˈlo͞oSH(ə)n/<br/>a dramatic and wide-reaching change in the way something works or is organized or in people's ideas about it.</p><p>Amidst the fight for the freedom of an entire nation, John Laurens is fighting for freedom within himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Oath

**Author's Note:**

> For John.  
> You deserved the world.

There was no proper way to describe the smell of the camp; there were no words for the particular stench, for the stomach-lurching combination of urine and blood and rotten meat and death that seemed to surround the troops wherever they went.

Today, the odor was worse than most –– every day for a week or so after a battle was, as they tended to the wounded and buried their dead. It had been a crippling defeat. After eleven hours of fighting, the American troops lost over a thousand men and had to retreat back toward Philadelphia. 

It was humiliating. And, despite how hard John fought… how hard they _all_ fought, it wasn’t enough.

He walked past various tents and huts toward the General’s headquarters. He’d been volunteering with General Washington for a while (mostly by the bequest of his father, despite John wanting to use his own merits and successes to secure himself a position), but nothing was official. John helped when he was asked to, left the room when he was asked to; hell, he’d fetch the General a canteen if he was asked to. But a volunteer on the General’s staff didn’t make him someone important. It just made him the son of someone important.

It was different now, though. He’d been called to the General’s tent on specific orders, which could really only mean one of three things –– he’d committed high treason, he was being promoted, or the General had found out he ––

No. It couldn’t be that.

John nodded to one of the men guarding the tent and the man mimicked the gesture before pulling the canvas aside. On each side of the General were his two chief aides-de-camp: the Marquis de Lafayette, a warm, inviting man who was as French in nature as he was in the thickness of his accent, and Alexander Hamilton, he was...

He was.... 

Beautiful. He was intelligent, he was witty, he was charming, he was the General’s favorite and everyone knew it. Every interaction he had with Hamilton reminded him that he was everything John wasn’t, everything John wished he was, and everything John wished he had all bundled in the slight frame of a man who tried to hide an accent John could never quite place.

He’d spoken to Hamilton all but three times more than just in passing and that was more than enough. Perhaps it was because Hamilton’s magnetic draw was overwhelming. Perhaps it was the fact that Hamilton looked at John in a way that was unfamiliar to him from experience, but stirred something forbidden in him that was very familiar indeed. Even now, he could feel Hamilton’s gaze on him as he stepped further into the tent. He was hyper-aware of it. John kept his eyes forward on the General as he spoke.

“Sir,” he said, standing at attention.

“John,” Washington greeted, and the use of his given name gave John pause, “How’s your father?”

Ah, so he was wrong. Of course this was about how his father was doing. The man was president of Congress, he was the reason John had a position on the General’s staff in the first place. This was most likely just about further correspondence between them, which John had handled before. Why he’d been called in like this, why it felt so official, he wasn’t sure.

“Well, sir, last I spoke to him.”

The general nodded, “Good. I expect to hear from him soon.” Then, a pause. It made John’s skin crawl. “The Marquis pointed out your incredible bravery at Brandywine,” the General began again, briefly looking at Lafayette.

“ _Bravery_ was not the word I used,” the Marquis pointed out, heavily accented, with a small smile. John could see Hamilton smirk out of the corner of his eye. He ignored the tightening in his chest.

“Regardless,” Washington continued, “It did not go unnoticed. You’ve been a volunteer on my staff for a considerable amount of time and after hearing of your feats in the field, I felt it more appropriate to solidify your status as a member of my staff.” John’s brows furrowed. He glanced from the General to Lafayette, then reluctantly to Hamilton. Hamilton’s lips twitched upwards at the corners.

John looked back to the General.

The reverential man spoke again, “I would like for you to join my staff and take the title of aide-de-camp. You will, of course, be compensated for this promotion. I know you’ve requested not to be paid for your service. Hamilton has offered his tent so you share space with someone of your rank.” John had to fight the heat that threatened to creep up his neck.

“Thank you, sir. I accept. It’s an honor,” he managed, overwhelmed in more ways than one as he stepped forward toward the General’s desk. Washington slid a slip of paper across it.

An oath. _His_ oath.

As aide-de-camp. As Hamilton’s new tent-mate. As someone Washington deemed close enough, smart enough, important enough, _brave enough_ on his own. This wasn’t a title that was gifted to him; this was the General believing him trustworthy enough to be worthy of his confidence. And that wasn’t something John’s father could procure for him.

John took the quill from the inkwell. He signed his name, his title. _John Laurens, aide-de-camp to his excellency, the Commander in Chief._

He dated it, placed the quill back in the inkwell as he looked up at the Commander. “Congratulations, Laurens,” Washington smiled. John inhaled slowly.

“Thank you, sir.”

Washington nodded, “I expect you’ll be writing to your father about this.” John chuckled, bowed his head once more.

“Yes, sir.” He tightened his jaw so he wasn’t grinning like a fool in front of the general, tilting his chin upward in the slightest as he brought himself to attention again. His hands were still shaking at his sides, breath leaving him in long, uneven bursts.

The general looked to John once more. “Dismissed, Lieutenant Colonel,” Washington commanded, the corners of his lips still slightly upturned, and John _yes-sir’d_ in response as he fell from attention and swiftly exited the tent. He heard the Commander speak again as he was leaving, but couldn’t make out his words as the tent flaps closed.

They were opening again soon after, before John really had a chance to make any headway from the tent. He could hear footsteps approaching and turned to look over his shoulder. Lafayette and Hamilton were coming up behind him, pace quick until they were each at one of John’s sides.

“Congratulations, Laurens,” Hamilton said as he stepped in time with John, the only thing visible to John from his current angle the side of Hamilton’s hat, “You’re one of us now.” John could feel the heat creeping up his chest again, only able to manage half a smile before Lafayette was flinging an arm over his shoulders, swaying them both in a manner just short of drunkenness.

“ _Oui, un de nous!_ ” the Frenchman echoed, gripping John’s shoulder. John truly smiled then, as he turned to look at the young Major. Lafayette grinned in response, and looked as though he was about to speak again before Hamilton cut him off.

John turned to look at the side of his hat.

“The General suggested you gather your belongings from your current tent and move them immediately. Because your duties have been changed with your promotion, he also recommended you shadow Lafayette and I for a few days to better understand your new position,” Hamilton exhaled in what seemed like a single breath, and for a moment John was taken aback at how so much air could have possibly filled up so slight a frame. “We can gather your things now,” he continued, “and move everything into our quarters –”

“Enough with the plans, my dear Hamilton!” Lafayette interrupted, his arm still slung over John’s shoulder, “The man’s just been promoted! He deserves a beer first, does he not?” That, of course, made John smile. Only so much of him was focused on the idea of a drink, however, as most of his brain was still honed in on one three letter word: _our_.

It didn’t mean anything beyond the superficial definition, he knew that. Yes, they were sharing a tent, so what? John wasn’t stupid, he knew that this… whatever it was he felt toward Hamilton, wasn’t even just ridiculous, it was. Unlawful. Sinful. Against the natural order of man. It was abominable, and no one could know he felt it. John wished he didn’t know, either.

“A pint would be perfect,” John finally managed, eyes still on Lafayette. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Hamilton. How he was going to share a living space with the man when he could hardly even speak to him, he wasn’t quite sure, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to finding out.

Lafayette nodded, “It’s settled, then! Once we celebrate, we can get down to business. Is that to your satisfaction, _mon petit lion_?” The Frenchman’s gaze turned toward the smaller man to John’s left, and John felt the need to mimic the motion. Hamilton turned his head, looking up at them (and past him for a moment so he could glare playfully at Lafayette).

“You act as though I would ever be foolish enough to turn down a pint,” Hamilton retorted, the corners of his mouth pulling into a wide smile that sent John’s stomach shooting up into his chest. Hamilton’s eyes flickered over toward John briefly, his expression shifting into something else –– something almost predatory –– for the tiniest fraction of a millisecond. John looked away quickly, focusing his gaze on the ground in front of them.

“To the Officer’s tent!” Lafayette announced. “The dear General informed me Congress has sent in a few fresh barrels for us in addition to what’s already been rationed out for the troops. I had requested wine but, alas, none was gifted to me.” There was a genuine solemnness to his tone, as if he was truly hurt by Congress’ decision not to send him wine. Perhaps he was. John was never truly sure with the Marquis; he always had a penchant for the dramatic. Must’ve been a French thing.

The Frenchman, arm still wrapped around John, led the two other men to the Officer’s tent. It wasn’t the first time John had been in there, just the first time as, well, one of the officers. Finally, Lafayette’s arm slipped from John’s shoulders so he could grab three mugs from beside a barrel. He turned back, extending one toward each man.

“Shall we sit?” Hamilton asked, though he was already finding a small table amongst the ones packed with other officers and aides. Lafayette followed, as did John soon after, sliding onto the stool across from Hamilton. As they all settled and removed their hats, Hamilton raised his mug. “To revolution,” he toasted, eyes intent on John. Though he wanted to so terribly, John didn’t look away.

Not _the_ revolution. Revolution. A change. A metamorphosis.

“ _Vive la révolution_ ,” Lafayette tacked on as their mugs clinked together. John brought his mug to his lips, finally dropping his eyes to stare down into the bottom of the cup as he gulped down more than he found pleasant. When he set the cup down once more, Hamilton was still looking at him.

John looked back.

He shouldn’t have. He knew he shouldn’t have. If there was anything worse than feeling something that betrayed everything he was ever taught, everything he knew to be true, it was _goading_ that feeling, allowing it to finally overcome him as he met Hamilton’s gaze with his own. His heart tightened in his chest, and he was only able to hold for so long before he was sipping at his beer again.

“So, my dear Laurens,” Hamilton began, almost as if on cue, smirking at John from across the table, “I do hope you don’t have too many belongings with you. I’m afraid most of our tent is housing papers for the General.”

“Tis a _mess_ ,” Lafayette corrected from behind his mug, “Do not let this man fool you. It’s entirely his doing.” Hamilton feigned offense, reaching over to smack Lafayette in the arm. Both of the men laughed, and John had to find it in himself not to stare at Hamilton as his nose crinkled, freckles splayed across his cheeks just visible in the dim lighting.

He found himself smiling softly, eyes dropping down to his own pint once more. “I haven’t got much,” John noted as he looked back up to the other men, “My father has sent me a couple of things, but I keep little more with me than that. I’ve no more than any other average soldier.”

Hamilton’s eyes set on him again. “You likely have less. With your not accepting pay for your service.” John let out a short breath, tongue trailing across his lip. “It’s admirable,” Hamilton continued, expression soft behind the intensity of his eyes, “Very admirable, indeed.”

John shook his head. “There are plenty of people in this country who work incredibly hard, who risk their lives, and remain unpaid. I don’t see why it should be any different for me. Not when I volunteered and they have no choice.” The statement gave Hamilton pause. His brows twitched, lips curling upward into an expression reminiscent of the ends of a smile. It was as though Hamilton’s entire aura shifted; to what, John wasn’t quite sure. 

“Yes,” he said quietly after a moment, the smile more prominent now, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Lafayette glanced back and forth between the two men, bringing his pint to his lips in an effort to hide the smirk that played at the corners of his mouth. 

_Americans._

The moment, John felt, lasted far longer than appropriate, and he quickly broke the mutual stare by taking another sip of his lager. “I should go collect my things,” he noted, “Before it gets dark.”

“Do you need me to accompany you?” Hamilton asked, leaving only a fraction of a second’s pause before he was speaking again, “To help carry your things.” John finished off his drink. Lafayette was still smirking from behind his.

“If you’d like. I suppose it’d be more efficient,” John nodded, setting down his empty cup on the table as he stood. Hamilton followed suit, though his own drink was only half finished.

“Are you joining us, Lafayette?” Hamilton asked upon noticing the Marquis was still seated and sipping casually at his drink.

“ _Non, mon chère_ ,” Lafayette smiled, swaying lightly in his seat, “I think I will see how my dear General is doing. Perhaps he is in need of my assistance.” His smile widened and he looked at John as though he knew something John didn’t. “I shall see you both in the morning, yes?” John nodded in response and Hamilton gave Lafayette’s shoulder a quick pat. “Congratulations again, dear Laurens. I think you’ll make a lovely addition.”

John smiled softly in thanks and, with the replacement of their hats on their heads, followed Hamilton out of the officer’s tent. They began to walk toward John’s tent –– his _former _tent –– with a strange silence hanging around them. Hamilton wasn’t known for being quiet; John couldn’t understand why he was now.__

After a moment, however, Hamilton did begin to speak. “In all honesty, Laurens, I should apologize for the state your new quarters are in. I wasn’t expecting to be sharing the space any time soon.”

“That’s alright. I don’t take up much room,” John offered, pocketing a gloved hand into his coat. He could feel Hamilton’s gaze as it shifted onto him, and he did a double take toward the shorter man.

“I hardly believe that’s true,” Hamilton responded as he turned to look ahead of them again. His hat blocked most of the smirk that played across his features, but John caught the corner of it anyway, and it made his chest seize. He quickly turned back to their path, refusing to let his gaze leave it until they’d reached his tent.

Finally, he looked toward Hamilton again. “I’ll only be a moment,” he said as he ducked inside and began to gather his belongings. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he didn’t have much –– a few letters from his father, a second shirt, his weekly ration of hay, his canteen. John had always been a bit of a dandy, but war didn't allot for luxuries like dashing hats or scarlet waistcoats. Now, those things seemed trivial (even if he did complain to his father about them regularly).

He tossed a couple of items outside of the tent – he could hear Hamilton as he began to pick them up. As John made his way back outside, arms full of what little had been left in inside, he sighed. “That’s everything.”

Hamilton nodded, “Excellent. Follow me.” John complied, despite the fact that he did already know where Hamilton’s –– his –– tent was located. He had, of course, never been inside of it, but that was clearly about to change. They made their way to John’s new quarters, fumbling to get the flaps open with their hands full. Once inside, John’s eyes widened.

“I thought the Marquis had spoken in jest,” he said, trying not to chuckle as he surveyed the area. Nearly every surface (including, what he assumed, was meant to be his cot) was covered in stacks of paper. Hamilton glared at him.

“The general has a lot that needs writing,” he explained as he neared a table, carefully leaning to one side to balance John’s items. He freed a hand so he could move some of the papers to the side carefully before beginning to set things down, “Letters to congress, speeches for the troops, bills –– if need be. I keep what isn’t sent off and the correspondences we get in return. For reference.”

“Not for tinder?” John joked, and the look he got was all the response he needed. He smiled, quickly turning away from Hamilton so he could find a place to set his things down.

“I’ll consolidate everything onto my side,” Hamilton offered, but John was already shaking his head.

“That’s hardly necessary,” he said, turning toward the smaller man once more, “Like I mentioned, I don’t need much space. And I imagine I’ll be taking part in some of the correspondence sooner rather than later. There are worse things to be surrounded by than information.”

Hamilton lit up again as he neatened a pile of papers, head whipping upward. John tried not to notice the way his eyes glistened, crinkling at the corners, or the way his smile accented the smattering of freckles that he only just noticed covered Hamilton’s fair skin until ultimately disappearing beneath his collar. He tried not to, but he did, and only Hamilton’s words pulled him back from the trance-like state he was in.

“Right you are, my dear Laurens. Right you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for any historical inaccuracies. They will be there. I'm doing my best.
> 
> It's tagged as L-MM's Hamilton as well because, technically, it's not out of the realm of possibility. Unless you consider the fact that no one was obnoxiously shouting "WHAT TIME IS IT? SHOWTIME!" out of the realm of possibility. If that's the case, I'm sorry.
> 
> We all know how this ends. I'm sorry for that, too.
> 
> Special thanks to Asya (@communistbabe) for editing and Felix (@feliciores) for the forthcoming artwork.
> 
> twitter: @dearlaurens | tumblr: alexharnilton


	2. Germantown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exciting news! I plan to be releasing a new chapter every Wednesday. I'm not guaranteeing they won't be posted at, like, 11pm EST... like this one... BUT WEDNESDAY. If there are any updates/changes to post dates, I'll mention it on my twitter.
> 
> Also, I thought I'd give you guys some trigger warnings for this chapter: blood, violence, gunshot wounds, and description of battle have all been included. Please be wary of this before reading.

Light seeped in through the fabric of the tent, pale white glow softly washing over John’s face. He stirred. The camp was still quiet, quiet enough to permit at least a few more minutes of rest before he’d have to wake. John exhaled slowly, rolling from one side to onto the other. Contrasting against the dawn was the bright yellow of a candle, harsh in intensity. Reluctantly, John peeked a tired eye open.

Hamilton was sat at the small table positioned between their cots, scribbling rapidly on a piece of parchment.

John groaned. “Hamilton,” he muttered as he forced himself up onto an elbow, sleep thick in his voice, “The sun’s hardly risen. Must you really do… whatever it is you’re doing… right this moment?” It was a stupid question, John knew. The answer was almost always yes.

“I have to proof this draft, Laurens,” Hamilton replied. His brows twitched when he continued to read, nose crinkling slightly as he tapped the back of his pen against his lips. John flopped back down onto the bed. It was much, _much_ too early for this, and the vulnerability afforded to most men upon waking was not something he found appropriate to crop up at this particular time –– certainly not when he was just staring at Hamilton’s lips, soft and curved and glistening under dim light and the gold of the pen.

“You stayed up half the night writing it,” John noted, eyes on the roof of the tent. He very pointedly tried not to think about how much he wished he could look over at the man illuminated by candlelight, unkempt red locks framing his face almost as though he were a flame himself.

He wasn’t going to look over. He wasn’t.

Hamilton glanced up from the parchment to glance at John briefly before his eyes returned to his work, “I’m aware. However, the General asked this letter to congress be finished by the morning. It must go out before this evening.”

This evening.

This evening, they began their march on Germantown, sixteen miles south. They’d go by the cloak of night to remain undetected by the loyalists, attempt to attack a section of the British army that had been divided from the rest. The plan was to strike before dawn, take the redcoats completely off guard, steal an easy win amidst what seemed to be a losing battle.

“Anything particular in it?” he asked, succumbing to his weak will and lolling his head to the side so he could look at Hamilton. He caught his lip between his teeth, and it was only when Hamilton’s gaze flickered up to him again he realized he’d been staring.

Hamilton half smiled, “Were you not going back to sleep?”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” John retorted, fingertips absentmindedly scraping across his chest, “Not with your all your scribbling.” He smiled broadly as Hamilton glared at him, the point of his nose perfectly emphasizing the overdrawn pout of his lips. “The sun is up, anyway,” he offered as an afterthought, “And if this is something of importance, perhaps I should sign my name onto it for good measure.” Hamilton rolled his eyes, but the hint of a smile was still present at the corners of his lips.

“I believe this particular piece is reserved for the General’s signature,” Hamilton replied, shaking his head fractionally as he looked back down at the parchment.

“Yet still written by your hand,” John said as he finally sat up, running a hand through his hair. He looked down to adjust his nightshirt, scratching across his chest a couple more times before raising his head again. As he did so, his eyes met Hamilton’s. The light in the room wasn’t quite low enough to hide the red that spread up his partially exposed chest and to his cheeks. Looking into Hamilton’s eyes was never short of intense. For anyone.

For John, however, it just happened to be worse.

His jaw clenched, body just awake enough to go rigid. The gaze lasted for longer than was comfortable, but John couldn’t make himself look away. Hamilton’s eyes held him there, motionless and flushed, his fingers still lightly pressed against his chest.

“What?” John finally said, breaking the silence between them. Hamilton blinked a couple of times, as if he’d lost track of his thought.

Hamilton’s eyes dropped toward the parchment once more. “Nothing.”

John’s brows furrowed, focus still on Hamilton. It was the first time he hadn’t been the one to break the eye contact, but why? Why had Hamilton looked away first?

He cleared his throat, his hand finally dropping down and slapping lightly against his thigh. John wasn’t sure what to say –– if there even was anything to say. After a moment’s hesitation and complete silence between them, John stood. He stepped toward the edge of his cot, grabbing his stockings and quickly pulling them up over his legs. His breeches followed quickly after. John tugged them up to his hips, ran a hand through his hair to push a few stray strands out of his eyes, and had his nightshirt halfway over his head when Hamilton began to speak.

“Going somewhere?” He asked, tone a bit… tense. It was only then, as John turned around, shirt now balled in his hands, that he realized the smaller man had been staring at him. John’s tongue flicked out over his bottom lip.

“Tis a long day ahead,” John replied, “May as well begin it now.” Quiet consumed them again quickly, John’s breath hitching slightly as Hamilton’s eyes dipped and scanned across his bare torso. He blinked a few times, sure he’d imagined it. There was no reason he’d.... they’d been tent-mates for a few weeks, it wasn’t like Hamilton hadn’t…

Too lost in thought, it took him a moment to notice Hamilton’s gaze was directed at his face again. Color was high on his cheeks, even by the low light of the candle, and heat instantly spread across John’s exposed chest. 

Once again, he was the first to break eye contact as he quickly turned around and grabbed his fresh shirt. He could still feel Hamilton’s gaze on him, burning hot into his back. John swallowed hard as he pulled his shirt over his head. He couldn’t leave the tent until he was fully dressed –– damn multiple layers, damn unpowdered hair –– and made a quick effort towards looking presentable.

His only relief came from the sound of Hamilton’s pen as it resumed its scratching against the parchment. 

“Will you be seeing us off?” John asked, finally breaking the silence as he looked over his shoulder at Hamilton. He pivoted to see the redhead’s face, though he sort of wished he hadn’t. Hamilton was scowling, his expression bitter and borderline resentful. Before Hamilton could speak, John continued.

“I know you yearn to fight, Hamilton, but take your position for what it is: the General _needs_ you. More so than any of the rest of us. Even Lafayette’s life is at risk. But not yours. You can do just as much for this country with a pen as thousands of soldiers could with their lives.”

He didn’t know where that had come from; John had never been one for words, and certainly not words that held such sentimentality for someone who…

Yes, they were friends. Of course they were friends.

But what John felt for Hamilton was beyond that of just friendship. It was visceral, it was a feeling he couldn’t shake. It was a feeling he didn’t even want to recognize, but had crept up on and overtaken him without his consent and now he simply couldn’t let it go. Of course, Hamilton could never know that. However, that didn’t mean Hamilton didn’t need to hear it. John only spoke the truth of what he honestly believed –– Hamilton was meant for greater things than this war, and he had to be alive to see those things through.

He wasn’t sure he could say the same for himself, but that wasn’t what mattered.

The smaller man, still seated at the table, remained motionless as he stared at John. His jaw was slightly agape, eyes wide and unblinking. He looked as though he were stone, a perfect marble sculpture suspended in a permanent state of shock. A man looking into the eyes of a gorgon.

“I should let you alone,” John said quietly, “To finish your letter.”

Hamilton finally regained composure, nodding once before very swiftly looking down at the parchment once more. John offered the man one final glance before swiveling on his heel and exiting the tent.

\- 

It was an hour before sundown. The troops were lined up, though not at attention, and John stood toward the back with the rest of the officers. He hadn’t seen Hamilton since the morning, which part of him was thankful for. It wasn’t that they typically spent the whole day together, but this morning had left John feeling uneasy. There was enough to worry about with the march, he didn’t have time to think about the pit in his stomach. He’d chalk it up to pre-battle nerves. No one could know the real reason.

Despite having spent the entire day away from him, seeing Hamilton now was unavoidable. As the General approached, Hamilton at his side, all of the officers dropped their conversations and brought themselves to attention. John focused on the General, hands poised at his sides.

“Tonight, we embark on a mission in a style of which we have never attempted before. It will be grueling. It will be taxing. However, I expect nothing less than the utmost effort from each and every one of you. Your command, your decisions, your leadership, will dictate the outcome of this battle. I have faith that we will succeed. Tonight, we will hoist ourselves one step closer to freedom!”

He could feel Hamilton’s eyes on him. He could also feel the wind at his back, the last rays of sunlight warming his skin. He could feel the swelling in his chest: hope, as it sprung from his rib cage and past his lips. “Yes, sir!” The men said in chorus. John held his chin up high. This was where he belonged.

Washington nodded, and the men fell from attention. The General turned away then, looking to Hamilton briefly. The smaller nodded at whatever had been said, but before John could watch for long, Lafayette was quickly heading toward him. The Frenchman was almost giddy as he reached John, smiling widely as though he’d just heard a joke and certainly not as if he were about to go off to battle.

“ _Mon dieu_ , he certainly has a way with words, does he not?” Lafayette glanced behind him toward the General, still grinning when he turned back around.

John smiled, “He does indeed.” He looked over Lafayette’s shoulder just as Hamilton turned toward them and began to walk in their direction. John nodded to Lafayette, signaling that Hamilton was heading their way.

“Ah, sweet Hamilton,” Lafayette beamed, “Try not to miss us too much while we are gone.” Hamilton glared at Lafayette and the Frenchman gasped, “My dear Colonel! I could very well be speared by a bayonet before you see me next, do not spear me with your gaze as well!” John couldn’t help but laugh, his head dropping as he attempted to hide the chuckle behind his hand.

“Were things my way, I would be fighting beside you,” Hamilton said, the seriousness in his tone countered by the small smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth as he elbowed Lafayette lightly in the arms. “But you’ll both do well to return unscathed.” Both John and Lafayette nodded. Hamilton seemed satisfied with the wordless promise.

The three men turned their heads as General Sullivan shouted for Lafayette, and the Frenchman nodded at the officer before quickly turning back to his friends. “Good luck, dear Laurens,” he said as he pressed a kiss to each of John’s cheeks. He echoed the display once facing Hamilton, smiling lightly at the man. “I shall see you upon our triumphant return, my friend.” And, with that, Lafayette was heading toward Sullivan, leaving John and Hamilton alone.

Their eyes locked. Hamilton smiled softly.

John bit his lip, holding Hamilton’s gaze. He didn’t want to break it this time, not if…

Not if it was his last chance to look into those deep blue eyes. Not if he never got to see the man standing before him again. Not if he would never be able to tell him… No he’d never be able to tell anyone. No one could know how he felt, _what_ he felt. Not even the man that stood in front of him, lips slightly parted as if he wanted to say something but he simply couldn’t find the words.

Hamilton stepped forward –– closer –– reaching up to place his hand on John’s right shoulder. John inhaled slowly and blinked a couple of times as Hamilton squeezed the top of his arm.

“Be safe, John.”

_John._

Hamilton’s grip loosened until his hand dropped entirely, slipping down the front of John’s chest for a moment before swinging back down to his side. John’s jaw fell slightly ajar and he found himself unable to articulate any of the million thoughts in his head. Hamilton smiled softly as he stepped out of John’s space, pocketing the hand whose warmth was still radiating through John’s coat. John nodded, still unable to speak. The ghost of that sad smile was lingered on Hamilton’s face as he stepped back once more, turning away without another word.

-

They’d been walking for hours. How many, John wasn’t sure. The moon was beginning to set, the surrounding area silent aside from the stepping of the regiment’s feet, the clatter of horses’ hooves. It had to be close to dawn - the eastern sky was beginning to color a light pink. They had to be close.

The ground was covered by fog, thick and unforgiving. It was almost as though Mother Nature herself was against an American win. They’d lost so much already, they couldn’t afford another retreat. Fog be damned.

He wondered how far the other columns had gotten; the 3,000 men militias on either side of two columns led by General Greene and General Sullivan. Lafayette had been stationed with Sullivan and John with Greene, so he hadn’t seen his friend since they’d begun marching.

Just when he thought they were getting close, he heard it.

Gunshots. Canons. The fighting had started, and they hadn’t even arrived yet. John looked toward the other officers on horseback, to General Greene. Greene didn’t hesitate as he yelled for the men to increase their speed; they had to be there to help their brothers. They had to be there to fight.

When they arrived, they entered Hell. The fighting had been going on for long enough that canons had been fired and both sides had suffered casualties. Commands were called from all directions, Brigadier Generals commanding their troops to fire, to draw their swords. It was savage, hand-to-hand, and they hadn’t even arrived at the rendezvous point with the rest of the American forces.

John, sword drawn, rode through the crowd of men. He did what he could to help despite being told to stay back, being told to let the troops do their job and not risk himself. He couldn’t just sit back and let his men die simply because he’d been granted a higher rank than them. It wasn’t fair.

The skirmish kept them from their goal, to meet with the rest of the troops. Fog still obscured their vision, but they kept fighting until they made it to their brothers. Once again outnumbered, outskilled, the Americans fought a battle they would ultimately lose. More men fell, more lives were lost. The British troops seemed endless, a sea of red coming toward them wave after wave, relentless and unforgiving. Bullets whirred past John as he rode further into the battle, whizzing in an eerily familiar tone until…

Until he no longer heard the sound of bullets flying past him. Instead, he heard the heaviness of a bullet as it hit its mark.

Him.

A piercing pain shattered through his right shoulder, arm going limp as his sabre fell out of his hand. He hunched forward, heat reverberating through his body and blood seeping through his coat.

Tugging on his horse’s reins, John continued forward. His vision began to blur, but he repressed the pain in his throbbing shoulder and the foreign object lodged in it; continuing on was more important than his own life. He wasn't going to give up on the battle yet. John put his sword in his left hand, the weakened right one taking the reins. He lurched forward, swiping, slashing with his weaker hand and watching as red coats soaked in a matching hue and sank to the ground.

John rode until he could no longer and was almost instantly ordered by Greene to head back toward camp.

Though Greene insisted on having another officer accompany him, John refused and began the ride back on his own. Sixteen miles. He could make it sixteen miles. His horse carried him quickly, galloping as fast as she’d take him. Every bump sent a shudder through John’s body, the aching in his shoulder slowly overtaking nearly all other feeling.

Even so, John sped on. Eyes forward, head up. His breath came in ragged huffs, and John knew he had to do something –– anything –– to keep himself from falling off his horse, from losing sight of his destination.

Suddenly, he heard Hamilton’s words once more. _Be safe, John._ He could nearly feel the man’s hand, that soft yet reassuring grip, on his shoulder… the very same shoulder...

Eyes forward, head up.

By the time he could see camp in the distance, the panging in his shoulder had made his entire body weak. John gripped to his horse’s reins, urging her on despite consciousness beginning to slip away from him. As he reached camp, he’d gone almost completely slack atop his horse, the animal riding in on its own with the officer on its back.

He heard the echoes of voices around him, faint and distant. He felt as he was pulled from his horse, just strong enough to keep his knees from buckling beneath him as a couple of men carried him toward the Medic’s tent. Head lolled forward, John tried to open his eyes. Through his lashes, all he could see was the ground, the way his feet dragged behind him, the stains of red upon his uniform –– whether it was his blood or the enemy’s, he wasn’t sure.

His eyes couldn’t stay open for long, awareness once again slipping from him as his world faded to black.

_Be safe, John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do feel the need to point out my own inaccuracy in this chapter: Lafayette didn't actually fight in the battle of Germantown, he'd been shot in the leg at Brandywine and was told by Washington to stay out of commission. It wasn't mentioned during the last chapter, either, as I wanted him to be at Germantown. Because I want Lafayette everywhere. I'm not sorry. Also, I couldn't find which column John had been situated with, so I just chose one. Whoops.
> 
> Once again, thanks to Asya (@communistbabe) for editing and Felix (@feliciores) for forthcoming artwork.
> 
> twitter: @dearlaurens | tumblr: alexharnilton


	3. More Than A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! The first section of this chapter is a bit gruesome, so I just wanted to give you all a heads up in that regard. TW for mild(-ish?) gore, medical procedures, blood, and things of that nature. It's not particularly pleasant. John's injury is mentioned a few more times throughout the chapter, but not in as much detail. If you'd like to skip it, you can definitely do so without missing out on anything plot-wise.

The sound of a man in unbearable, undeniable pain makes is impossible to put into words.

A wad of fabric was shoved into John’s mouth as the medic dug the forceps into his shoulder. There were two men holding him down, one at his uninjured shoulder and the other at his feet, pinning him to the table so the doctor could work. Blood slicked hot and viscid across his chest, soaking in the remnants of his shirt. Most of it had been torn away.

They didn’t have anesthetic, they didn’t have anything. John hardly been conscious by the time they got him to a medic –– he hadn’t been alert enough for alcohol, if they even had any –– but he was _sure as hell_ awake now. The forceps twisted in his flesh, digging for the bullet nestled in deep. John let out a cry into the gag, eyelashes wet. He struggled up against the men holding him down, desperate to get away from the throbbing that spread through every inch of his body.

Somehow the removal of the bullet was worse than getting shot in the first place.

He could feel the cold metal of the forceps as they curled around the ball, another agonizing whimper muffled into the cloth. His back arched, and John rolled his head from one side to the other desperately as his flesh was spread apart once again and the bullet removed from his shoulder. John huffed, struggling to breathe against the textile in his mouth. His entire body fell limp and, for a moment, he believed the worst to be over. 

He was wrong.

The men were talking, but the sound was distant. All of the blood –– what he hadn’t lost –– had rushed to his head, filling his ears. John slowly opened his eyes just in time to see a fourth set of hands give the doctor a cauter. He’d lost too much blood for stitches. His breathing quickly picked up again, eyes wide as the hot iron was lowered down toward his skin.

Upon contact, John screamed once more. The iron seared him, heat burning from his shoulder and quickly dispersing across his entire being. He exhaled heavily a few more times before going weak, the red behind his eyelids quickly fading to black as consciousness slipped away.

-

John’s eyes opened slowly; they were heavy, as though someone had placed coins upon them. He blinked a few times, lolling his head toward the heat still rolling in waves over his shoulder. It was heavily wrapped in white linen, the fabric hiding the burned skin beneath. The rest of him felt cold October air snaking under the blanket that had been draped over him and causing the chill to manifest in his bones.

The man hesitated another moment before making a feeble attempt to sit up, rising halfway on his left elbow before falling back against the cot he was resting on. A medic’s assistant heard the stir, turning quickly to catch the end of John’s struggle.

“Colonel Laurens,” the man said, rushing over, “Let me help you.” John gave the man a look. He wasn’t really one for asking for help, but seeing as he didn’t even have the energy to bring himself upright, he reluctantly allowed the man to help him sit up, only assisting when he needed to throw his legs over the side of the bed and push the blanket out of the way. “Here you are, sir,” the assistant said, crossing the room again quickly and returning with a glass, “It shall help with the pain.”

John nodded. He took a long swig of the liquid, not knowing or caring about its contents. As the sharp sting of alcohol burned down his throat, he sighed. His body relaxed a bit – the brandy coated his throat and he took another long sip, praying the effects of the liquid hit him sooner rather than later. 

“When will I be permitted to leave?” John asked, cup still halfway to his lips. He was throwing it back quickly. “I have duties I must attend to.”

“Once you’ve regained some of your strength, sir,” the aide explained, “Or the bed is otherwise needed.” John shook his head and quickly finished the contents of the cup. Before he could gain the strength to speak again, though, the tent flaps were opening and he slowly raised his head to look at the entryway.

Through them stepped Hamilton, frantically scanning the room before having even surpassed the entrance.

“Where is he?” John heard him say, tone apprehensive. Hamilton was blocked from his view by the medic that had intercepted him, which meant John was out of Hamilton’s line of vision as well. “Where is Colonel Laurens?” The medic stepped aside and pointed in John’s direction. Though across the room from him, John could see the color as it faded from Hamilton’s face, the way his jaw fell slightly agape.

Hamilton quickly headed toward him and the aide still at John’s side straightened to salute the other officer. John swallowed hard before turning as best he could to the young man still stood at attention. He was just weak enough that his mind felt sound despite the alcohol, that there was no immediate danger in having this conversation with Hamilton here, in the middle of a tent full of medics and wounded soldiers.

He sighed softly. “Leave us. I shall be fine for the next few moments, at the very least.” The aide _yes sir’d_ him softly before falling from attention and crossing the room to tend to another soldier.

“I _had_ heard you were defiant on the field,” Hamilton half-smiled, “Lafayette had pegged you as impetuous, yet I never thought you’d disobey a direct order from a friend. The current situation has incentivized me to rethink that assumption.”

John managed a small smile. It hurt his chest more so than it did any other part of his aching body. “Unfortunately for even the _dearest_ of my friends, I do actually lack control of where the opposition’s musket balls choose to land. Perhaps you should bring their needing to be more mindful of their bullets to their attention. I’m sure it would be well received.” 

Hamilton’s smile widened fractionally, but there was something in his eyes that the expression didn’t quite reach to. John was exhausted, too fatigued, to put any real effort into figuring out what the countenance meant. He leaned heavily on his left hand, right arm laid weakly in his lap.

“Regardless,” Hamilton continued after a moment, “I am relieved to find you in one piece.”

“As I am relieved to be in one piece,” John countered with a small smile. He hesitated a moment before continuing, “I don’t suppose you could convince one of the men to allow me to leave? I very much wish to return to my duties as soon as possible, and I’m afraid they won’t listen to me.”

Hamilton smirked, “Nor should they. You _have_ just taken a bullet, John.” There it was again. John. _John._ Hamilton paused to chew his lip and John did his best not to take too much note of it. “I shall ask,” the man tacked on, his gaze dropping as he turned on his heel toward the medic. John watched his back as Hamilton made his way toward the entrance of the tent again.

He was unable to hear Hamilton as, this time, the men spoke in hushed tones. Instead, John watched as best he could and attempted to read the back of Hamilton’s head for an answer. The slight man nodded every so often, slim shoulders rolling as the medic spoke. After a few moments, Hamilton made his way back toward John, a couple of supplies in his hands. 

“You are free to go, provided you remain on bed rest for the next couple of days. I assured the surgeon I would look after you, and you’re required to return at the week’s end to check the wound is healing properly.” John nodded as Hamilton continued. “It will need redressing each morning and evening, which I will assist with. The General has gifted you an unopened bottle of brandy for the pain. Tis back at the tent. If your patience can withstand just a bit longer, I can fetch a fresh uniform for you.”

“Ah, yes,” John said, looking down at his bare chest and, for the first time, feeling rather exposed, “that would be much appreciated.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, as though he was recalling a nightmare instead of a memory, John could feel the fabric of his shirt being torn away, peeling at the bits of linen stuck to his skin by his blood. He shook the thought.

Hamilton nodded. “I will return shortly,” he assured, supplies still neatly tucked under his arm. He turned back toward the entrance, but was only able to take a few steps from his prior position before John spoke once more.

“Alexander,” he began, gaze dropping as Hamilton halted in his tracks. John was suddenly at a loss for what he’d even meant to say, thoughts too preoccupied with how sweet those four syllables tasted on his tongue to form words. He glanced back up as Hamilton turned over his shoulder. The ability to speak returned to him then and John smiled lightly as he continued. “Thank you.”

He could have sworn he saw a slight blush creep up the back of Hamilton’s neck, the soft smile that pulled at the corner of the man’s lips not quite enough to hide the redness of his cheeks.

Perhaps it was just the brandy.

Hamilton turned back around and John watched him retreat until his smaller figure disappeared from the tent. He sighed softly, trying not to smile as he swayed to the side just enough to lift his left hand from the cot. John ran the hand through his hair, fingers curling in it at the crown of his head. He had, really, no reason to be smiling –– not with a wound that was likely going to kill him weighing down his shoulder, not with the fact that he was going to have to tell his father about what happened, and certainly not when the injury meant he’d likely be out of commission until he healed. If he healed.

Most of the time, men with bullet wounds were left for dead, depending on where they’d been hit. John was lucky they hadn’t just taken his arm off, as was custom. He’d half expected it –– that was typically the only way soldiers could be kept alive. Musket balls tended to shatter through whatever bone they hit, should they hit bone, but the chances of infection were just as, if not more likely, to kill a man. He’d seen others die for less.

Losing a limb was still favorable to being hit in the torso. Those men, were they to survive the musket ball bouncing around inside them until finally losing momentum, were almost never even brought to the medic’s tent. There was very little chance of saving them. John had been lucky, in terms of how lucky one could get being shot, and he was grateful for that. But his pain was far from over, that he knew.

And yet, John still caught himself grinning. He didn’t want to admit that the reason for the expression had just walked out of the tent, but he knew it to be true. Hamilton didn’t just stop working for anyone. The man worked from before dawn until well into the night, given the chance, and wouldn’t even quit to eat unless reminded to. Checking in on John hadn’t been done out of obligation and John knew that.

But he also knew better than to think more of it than it was. Regardless of whatever John… felt, Hamilton was his friend just as he was Hamilton’s. It wasn’t –– couldn’t be –– anything more than that.

Lost in his own thoughts, it took John a moment to realize that Hamilton had returned, a folded shirt and a fresh coat draped over his arm. “Brandy already putting itself to good use?” Hamilton simpered as he set the coat down on the cot next to John and extended the white shirt toward him.

“Yes,” John chuckled in response, “I doubt I have ever been so grateful for a drink in my life.” He reached for the shirt, gritting his teeth a bit as he attempted to pull the sleeve over his right arm one-handed. He managed to get the fabric over his shoulder with a minimal amount of pain, but struggled once he realized he’d tangled the rest of the shirt in the process.

“Let me help,” Hamilton offered, kneeling down in front of John and taking the shirt before he could protest.

Still, John _tried_ to shrug him off. “I’ll have it momentarily, if you would just –” His objection was worthless, as Hamilton was already dropping the fabric over his head. John huffed as he forced his good arm through the second sleeve, jerking the fabric down around his torso and pulling his hair from under the collar as he finished. “I could have done it myself, had you-” he began, but was once again cut off by the smaller man.

“Much better,” Hamilton grinned, using John’s thighs as leverage to push himself back up to full height. John grumbled, shaking his head. “Ah,” Hamilton continued, “One more thing.” He pulled a long strip of cloth from the pile of clothing. “The surgeon said you had to keep your arm supported.”

“I will _not_ wear that,” John said, eyeing the soon-to-be-sling in Hamilton’s hands, “Tis unneeded. I should be fine without it.” Hamilton rolled his eyes, leaning toward John. Unable to evade him in any way, John groaned as Hamilton tied the textile around his neck and slowly adjusted his arm to fit into it. “This is unnecessary,” he muttered, glaring in Hamilton’s direction.

Hamilton smirked as he pulled away, “You being _shot_ was unnecessary. Consider it an effect most suited to its cause.” John’s glower had yet to cease, but it softened considerably as Hamilton’s hand extended out toward him. His gaze dropped to the palm outreached toward him, quickly studying the lines in it, noting places where ink splatters had yet to properly fade.

He took Hamilton’s hand and used it to pull himself up, swaying for a moment as blood began to flow throughout the rest of his body again. John blinked a couple of times before he realized he was still holding onto Hamilton. For balance. After finally steadying himself, he let go of the other man and sighed. Hamilton grabbed the coat from the cot and rose up onto his toes so he could drape it over John’s shoulders without a word.

“Are you fit to walk on your own?” Hamilton asked, hands hovering just below John’s good elbow.

“I was shot in the shoulder, Hamilton, not in the shin.” 

He turned his head to smile at the shorter man, who narrowed his eyes in turn. As stubborn as he was, however, John was not stupid. His body was weak, he needed the help if it was being offered to him. “That being said,” John resumed, “I may be in need of some assistance.” Hamilton smiled knowingly, a bit condescendingly. John felt the urge to make that smug expression disappear off his face by any means necessary.

Hamilton took hand and slipped it between John’s coat and the underside of his good arm, supporting John’s weight the best he could. “Off we go, then,” the redhead stated as the two of them walked arm in arm out of the tent.

In all honesty, John leaned on Hamilton more than he needed to.

-

Half a bottle of brandy and a number of hours later, long after the sun had set, John found himself seated on the edge of Hamilton’s cot as the little lion slowly began to peel the bandage from around his shoulder. 

“Damn,” John winced as the fabric pulled against a bit of dried blood. One of Hamilton’s hands moved to softly press against his back.

“Sorry.”

John looked over at Hamilton, suddenly hyper-aware of their closeness –– of Hamilton’s knee resting on his thigh, the way his slim fingers grazed his skin as they removed the bandage, his breath as it ghosted along his shoulder. Hamilton’s brows twitched as John’s wound was revealed, black and inflamed and coarse against his otherwise clear skin. For a moment, Hamilton’s gaze flickered away and John swallowed hard.

“Worry not,” he offered, “It feels as horrible as it looks.” It was a poor attempt at a joke, but the corners of Hamilton’s mouth twitched upwards so John pinned it as a success.

Hamilton examined the wound for a moment, muttering as he did so. “I suppose that’s what you deserve, being as reckless as you were.” John shrugged his good shoulder.

“It was nothing you wouldn’t have done.”

The redhead’s eyes flickered upward toward John, his lips slightly pursed, fingers twitching along John’s skin. Their eyes locked but, after a moment, Hamilton’s leering came to an end as he dropped his gaze back down to John’s shoulder.

“True,” Hamilton replied, oddly quiet as he continued to examine the charred skin, “Though I wouldn’t have been foolish enough to get a musket ball to the shoulder.”

John smiled, “Are you capable of dodging bullets? Perhaps the General should let you on the field, if that proves to be the case.” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “But I digress.”

“You know I would have been at your side if I was permitted to be,” Hamilton replied, glancing at John for a moment before grabbing a fresh bandage from his bed, “I wish to be.” He began to circle the linen around John’s arm, swiftly wrapping it up to his shoulder before any sort of gentleness kicked in. “If the General would allow me to _prove_ myself on the field, he’d see the contribution I could make.”

“He knows,” John rebutted, “Is that not what brought you to his attention in the first place?” 

“That is hardly the point, J-”

John pursed his lips, “It’s exactly the point. The General knows, just as I know, where your talents are best suited. Brilliant as you may be on the field, tis but a shadow in comparison to how brilliant you are with a pen.” He sighed. “I cannot fathom what it must feel like to sit back while the rest of us march. But as I have told you before, you can do more with a well of ink than you can with a rifle. Most of us cannot say the same.”

Hamilton sucked his teeth and shook his head fractionally. John watched him, the way his lips had down-turned slightly at the corners, his ink-stained fingertips as they encircled his shoulder with the bandage. It seemed as though Hamilton didn’t have a proper response, which… shocked John, to say the least. There wasn’t much that could shut Hamilton up.

Still, it was apparent that Hamilton was not pleased with John’s words, as his wrapping had become a bit more rough. John winced as Hamilton pulled the bandage a bit too firmly over his wound, “Ow, Alex, too tight.” Alex? _Alex?_ That was certainly new.

Hamilton jumped a bit, releasing his hold on the wrap so the strip he’d just pulled fell loose against John’s shoulder. He looked up at John, eyes a bit wide. “My apologies,” he said quietly, their eyes once again locked.

John shook his head, refusing to look away. They were merely a few inches apart now, John could feel Hamilton’s breath as it fell softly against his lips. “I’m alright,” he dismissed, tone as faint as Hamilton’s had been, “Just be indulgent with me.”

Heat spread across John’s cheeks, his chest. It pricked at his ears. He realized how that sounded. Yes, he could have been talking about his shoulder –– for Hamilton to have been more lenient in his minding of it –– but had he been? Or had he been asking Hamilton to be patient with him in another way, in a sense that John wouldn’t dare outright inquire? Had it been both?

“Of course,” Hamilton replied, voice just above a whisper. His fingers twitched at John’s shoulder again and John blinked a couple of times, unsure of what to say to fill the silence. If the silence even needed to be filled. Finally, John broke the eye contact as he turned away to look down at his lap. Hamilton sighed softly.

Another moment of quiet passed.

“I was worried about you,” Hamilton admitted, finally resuming his task of wrapping John’s shoulder.

Those five words hit John as though he’d been shot again. This time, however, it was not his shoulder that panged, but his heart as it seized in his chest, his whole body tightening as the gravity of those words ran through him. He was suddenly overwrought with guilt. His father’s worry was never immediate, as he wasn’t around, and there was really no one else who would… who would truly care if something happened to him. As a soldier, as an aide to the General, as Henry Laurens’ son, sure, people would worry. But not for him. Not for who he was.

“I’m sorry.”

“As you should be,” Hamilton sniped lightly, finishing off the wrap at John’s collarbone and tucking the loose bit of fabric beneath the rest of it. Despite having finished his duties, Hamilton remained close to John, absentmindedly straightening and tapping at a few out of place strips.

John smiled. “If it quells your mind any, I shall do my very best not to make a habit of it.” Hamilton rolled his eyes and reached behind John’s back, slapping him lightly on his good shoulder. John’s smile widened to a lopsided grin. The redhead sighed, dropped his hand to the empty bed behind John. 

“For your own sake as much as mine, I should hope.” John turned to look at Hamilton once more. He bit his lip, studying the man as he continued to fiddle with the fabric cast around John’s shoulder.

John’s good hand raised to wrap around Hamilton’s, pulling it from his shoulder. Perhaps he held it for a bit too long, but he could feel the pad of Hamilton’s thumb as it trailed softly across his knuckles and couldn’t bring himself to let go. Not yet.

The statement, however, was not one he was willing to contest. His gaze dropped when his hand finally did, and John sighed softly as he looked across the room at his own cot.

“I should rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things! Someone pointed out in the last chapter that Hamilton was at Germantown - I know this. But, for the sake of the fic (at least for that particular battle), he wasn't participating in active combat. I won't give any spoilers away for what happens down the line, but I thought I should point that out since I forgot to make it clear in the last chapter. Sorry about that.
> 
> Another thing: to my knowledge, none of the boys had the ranking of Lieutenant Colonel until later on (I believe John was promoted by Congress in 1780/81, if my memory serves me correctly) but I figured I'd get it all out of the way early on to minimize confusion later. Like I said, no spoilers for the ending, but it does make things a bit easier on me.
> 
> I realize that my making amendments to the actual history at the end of each chapter kind of makes it seem like I'm not really keeping things very accurate, but I'm doing my best to keep things as close and true to the actual timeline as possible while also taking some artistic liberties to fit the plot.
> 
> As usual, if there's something blatantly wrong that I've forgotten to address, please let me know so I can either fix it, point it out, or adjust the story later on. My brain is housing a lot of information right now and sometimes I miss things.
> 
> Chapter 4 will be out next Wednesday! Prepare yourselves, folks, it's gonna be a doozy.
> 
> As always, thanks to Asya (@communistbabe) for editing and Felix (@feliciores) for forthcoming artwork.
> 
> twitter: @dearlaurens | tumblr: alexharntilon


	4. Valley Forge

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” Lafayette shivered, “It got cold rather quickly, did it not?”

“As it so often does in winter,” John noted with a smirk. He looked over to Hamilton, who was huddled into his coat, the tip of his nose visible enough for John to see it had gone the same shade of red as his hair. “Have you not grown used to the weather yet, Hamilton?”

Hamilton turned his head to scowl at John before quickly ducking back into the fabric.

“ _Le petit lion_ is a creature of the islands, dear Laurens! His delicate skin is used to the tropics, not the bitterness of a northern winter!” Lafayette quipped. John laughed, glancing sideways at Hamilton just in time to catch his typical combination of simultaneously rolling his eyes and shaking his head. It made him laugh harder.

The three men rode on horseback amongst the other officers, thousands of men marching ahead of them. They were on their way to a new camp, one which they had no choice but to retreat to after the loss at Germantown. They’d lost Philadelphia and, with winter already well upon them, they had no choice but to brave it out in the only place that would house them:

Valley Forge.

“You speak as though you’ve weathered such conditions regularly, Laurens,” Hamilton said, words somewhat muffled by his collar, “I don’t believe South Carolina sees such brutal drops in temperature.”

John chuckled, “It doesn’t. I simply have your relentless glaring to keep me warm.” He looked to Hamilton again and, sure enough, the redhead was scowling at him. John grinned. “See, there it is. I hardly need a coat.” Lafayette snickered into his palm, though he straightened considerably as Washington glanced back toward the three of them.

The General always had this look in his eyes when he watched them; it was as though he was a father watching his sons, waiting for one of them to provoke another to the point of him having to step in. Of course, Washington’s boys tended to behave themselves –– at least, they tried to when he was watching.

There was a fondness, John knew, for Hamilton and Lafayette especially. Hamilton was his chief aide, Lafayette constantly at his side. That, of course, didn’t matter to John. He knew the General had come to appreciate his merits, as he wouldn’t have been a part of Washington’s inner circle at all were that not the case. To be a part of the General’s family, to have that recognition from the Commander in Chief for his talents, was more validation than John could have ever hoped for.

It was more validation than he got from his own father.

“Lafayette,” the General called, head still turned to the young Frenchman, “Come.” Washington beckoned for him and Lafayette quickly obeyed, kicking lightly into the side of his horse to bring it to a trot. With Lafayette gone, John and Hamilton were left at the back of the pack, and John could hear Hamilton’s teeth chattering from his place a number of feet away.

“We’re nearly there,” John offered, “The house will have a hearth, you can warm up upon arrival.”

The fact that they had that option made them luckier than most.

Over a third the men didn’t have shoes. Most didn’t have coats. They were dragging themselves, heads hung in shame at the loss of Philadelphia, to this new camp where, hopefully, they would be able to make it through the winter. Thus far, things weren’t looking promising.

It was hard to joke, given the situation, but what else did the men have but hope –– but the faith that, come spring, they would be able to rise from the cold ground and start anew just as the flowers did.

To lose that conviction would be to lose the war, and that was simply something they couldn’t afford. Too many lives had been lost or destroyed, too many families torn apart. There was no turning back now. They didn’t have a choice.

John looked to the man riding alongside him, small frame visibly shivering beneath his coat, and he sighed. If he’d had an extra coat, he would have offered it. Even so, the only protection John had from the weather was his own tattered uniform, thinned out and worn in too many spots to provide any real insulation. He’d have to write his father later, he thought, asking if there was any way for him to procure another.

Hamilton huffed, opening his mouth as though he were about to protest, but John cut him off before he could speak, “You can’t write if your fingers go blue.”

“Perhaps not,” Alexander conceded, glancing sideways at John briefly before focusing on the trail ahead. “Though I don’t imagine I shall have much time to thaw.”

John shrugged, “The winter is long, as is our stay here. I’m sure even _you_ can find time to –”

His words fell as the camp –– or, at least, what he thought the camp was meant to be –– came into view. It was barren, open field surrounded by a river on one side and mountain on the other. The land was vast, yes, and dreary. It looked about as promising as the outcome of the war felt, not a single hut or cabin in sight, hopeless.

The officers were lucky enough to be able to rent out houses in the area from families who were for the cause. Most of the soldiers weren’t so lucky. They had been instructed to build their own cabins, 12x12 log huts using wood from the forest. The issue was, of course, they didn’t have the tools needed for 12,000 men to forge enough shelter in a short amount of time. Most of the men would be in canvas tents or other, less comfortable forms of shelter for most of the winter.

If they made it that long.

Supplies were already short, rations meager and disappointing. Congress had yet to grant them any sort of real funding –– they were willing to let the men die, let the troops and the prospect of defeating the British dwindle over spending the money they needed to in order to the war effort alive.

Had John been riding at the frontlines, he would have seen all of this sooner. But, instead, as they rode further into the camp, John watched the men slowly begin to unpack what little they had. Some sat on the ground, wrapping their bloody feet in linens, others exhaustedly beginning to set up their tents.

They journeyed deeper into camp, toward the building that was to be Washington’s headquarters and, subsequently, John’s home. The General would also be living there, as would a number of other officers and, of course, Hamilton. He and John were, naturally, sharing a room.

Once again, John would be confined to close quarters with the General’s chief staff aide. They’d been sharing a space for months now, however, and John had grown used to having to suppress his… feelings… around his friend. John and Hamilton worked well together, they got along, they were like-minded and shared many interests. Though John knew nothing could ever, ever happen between them –– for his own sake, as well as what he assumed would be disinterest (and disgust) on Hamilton’s part –– that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the other man’s company. And he did. Of course he did.

Hamilton and Lafayette had quickly made their place in his life as two figures of utmost importance. John respected them as peers and as friends, beyond anything else he may have felt for the former. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d have done without him. They kept him grounded, they lifted his spirits, and they provided a sense of camaraderie John felt necessary to survival in their situation. They were his family.

A bit lost in surveying the area around him, it took John a moment to realize that they’d come upon their destination. He slowed his horse to a stop as they reached the house, looking to Hamilton for a moment as he did the same. John dismounted and was hitching his horse to a post as Lafayette approached them, patting John’s horse lightly as he did so.

“I am most regretful to not be staying with you and the dear General here,” he noted, still rubbing the side of John’s horse as John removed the saddlebags from the animal.

Hamilton dismounted, feet hitting the ground with a light thud as he spoke, “Do you hear that, John?” he teased, “The marquis is apologizing for having his own private quarters.”

“There’s no need to be sardonic, Alex,” John sniped playfully in return as he slung his bags over his shoulder, “Perhaps he is in need of some alone time he has not been permitted since joining our fight for freedom.” Lafayette gasped.

“ _Excusez-moi!_ ” the marquis exclaimed, “I am not in need of alone time. It is no fault of mine that your quarters have two beds and not three.”

Hamilton snickered as they began to head in toward the house, quickly worming his way between the two taller men. “I’m sure we could find some space for you, dearest Lafayette, should you look to spend your company in the time of us common men.” The frenchman scoffed, but was unable to hold back his grin as he patted Hamilton on the back.

They made their way into the house and John looked around at the men already unpacking supplies and letters in the main rooms. The General spotted the boys and waved them over, and the soldier already at the commander’s side briefly excused himself.

Washington directed his gaze toward John and Hamilton, “Your room has been made ready for you both. The door is the furthest down the corridor on the right. Make haste in your settling in, we have much that needs to be done.”

“Yes, sir,” both young men replied in unison. Washington nodded.

“Dismissed.”

Lafayette stayed back as John and Hamilton both stepped away. They located the stairs, John making his way up them ahead of Hamilton, until they located their room. It was relatively large; two beds with a number of blankets each were placed on perpendicular walls, a small table located in the center of the room. Two large windows faced out toward the camp, and there was a fireplace along the far wall. Just as John had said.

“Home sweet home,” John mumbled as he made his way further into the room, allowing Hamilton to enter as well. He looked over his shoulder at the other man, lips slightly pursed. “Which bed would you prefer?”

Hamilton’s brow furrowed. “The one by the window,” he said after a moment, already headed toward it, “I can make good use of the light.” John nodded as he headed to his bed, dropping the items still slung over his shoulder onto it.

“This one is closer to the fireplace,” he noted, “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer it?”

“We’ll be warmer still than the men outside,” Hamilton noted, settling his lap-desk on a small table next to the bed he’d chosen.

John sighed. “Fair enough.” He wrinkled his nose a bit as he grabbed one of his extra blankets and tossed it onto Hamilton’s bed before quickly going back to unpacking his things. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see the redhead turned over his shoulder to look at him, brows slightly furrowed. “I’m closer to the fireplace,” he shrugged, “And you catch a chill more easily than I do.”

“And should you get cold in the night?” Hamilton asked, though he made no motion to return the blanket now in his possession.

“I’ll cross the room and snatch it from you,” John chuckled as he turned around and set a book down on the table. Hamilton exhaled, exasperated, and John couldn’t help but grin. They both fell silent, the only sounds in the room that of them moving things about. After a moment, Hamilton turned around and smiled softly.

He took a few steps forward, a hand curling lightly around John’s wrist. “Thank you.”

With that, Hamilton made his way out of the room, leaving John to finish unpacking and to contemplate the prickling in his wrist and the panging in his chest.

-

Winter had been relentless, ongoing. Even with most of the men in log cabin shelters, circumstances were terrible. Some would argue the troops were beyond saving, just as the war was beyond winning. Over a thousand men had died from cold and starvation. Horses perished of malnourishment. Congress had left them abandoned, stranded practically supplyless in a place that made the men feel as though hell was slicked in ice, not enveloped in fire.

Washington was desperate. Soldiers were deserting (or, rather, attempting to) left and right, his own men plotted against him to find a replacement Commander in Chief. They called him negligent, untrustworthy. None of them seemed to understand that the General was working with straw when he needed brick, with the empty promises of Congress, with the weight of a failing war on his shoulders alone.

It was mid-February. Those who made it through the bitterness of the dead of winter held high hopes for making it until spring, though the winds were still cold enough to cause chill and frostbite were they not careful. Living through the winter was, of course, not a guarantee for living. Though they looked forward to the warmth of the coming months, the blooming of flowers meant one thing: the hiatus was over. They were going back to war.

However, the most promising thing that had arrived at Valley Forge was not the chance of spring. It was, instead, a Prussian man with a penchant for war strategy who spoke no English and just happened to be, well. A bit of a character, to say the least.

That man was Baron von Steuben.

Dteuben had been at the camp less than two weeks, but had already –– somehow –– managed to make a difference with the failing Continental army. Of course, because he spoke no English (the little English he did speak was broken at best and riddled with Germanic phrases), both John and Alexander had been enlisted in helping translate what they could understand.

Luckily for them, he spoke French. _Un_ luckily for them, he spent most of his time cursing at how piss-poor the Americans were and how they were, for lack of a better term, the saddest excuse for an army he’d ever seen.

Which, of course, Alexander and John had the honor of getting to translate.

“Which do you think will come first today?” Hamilton asked as they headed out toward the field to meet the troops, “A proper drill or the Baron’s inevitable fit?”

John chuckled, shook his head. “Perhaps, if the former, he’ll erupt in a fit of joy instead of one of anger. But, if we have learned anything from the past month, it will be the latter. As per usual.” Alexander grinned, tilting his head up to look at John.

“It’s your turn to tell the men all the horrible things he says,” the smaller reminded him, playfully shoving him as they walked. John groaned. “Oh, hush. I did it yesterday.”

He huffed, extending his arm to shove Hamilton in retaliation as he spoke, “A valid point. Though I do harbor some suspicion that you enjoy doing so more than you let on.” Alexander chuckled, though he sobered up as they approached the Prussian man and his secretary, Pierre Du Ponceau.

“ _Bonjour, messieurs_ ,” the Baron said, nodding in the direction of his two temporary aides.

“ _Bonjour, monsieur_ ,” both John and Alexander replied, standing at attention. Steuben looked them both up and down, and John’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t like the way Steuben looked at him –– like he knew something wasn’t supposed to know –– and he _certainly_ didn’t like the way he looked at Hamilton. They’d heard all of Steuben’s exploits, it was no secret that he was… well. Like John.

John, however, was hardly obvious about his caperings (should there have been any, which there were not), whereas Steuben was rather… blatant. About everything. He made little effort to hide his preferences, and that only became more apparent when he looked at John like he knew exactly what he was and Hamilton like he was a piece of meat to be devoured. It put John on edge, worried him. If Steuben knew, which he so clearly seemed to, who was to say the man wouldn’t let such a fact slip?

“ _Ponceau, leur donner des copies de la nouvelle perceuse_.”

“ _Oui, monsieur_ ,” Ponceau replied as he extended a stack of papers with the new drill on them toward Hamilton. Alexander took one and handed the other to John. He studied it briefly, only partially listening as Steuben began to rattle something vaguely inappropriate off to Alex.

This was how every day went now Steuben was around. The troops were slowly but surely being whipped into shape at the aggressive yet capable hands of their Prussian drillmaster. As the four men headed out toward where the soldiers were waiting for them, John glanced at Alexander, who walked briskly at the side of their foreign comrade.

Surely, even if the Baron could tell where John’s interests laid, he didn’t know…

John shook the thought as they reached the training grounds. Three companies stood at attention as they arrived, awaiting the explanation and commands Steuben was to give them. The Baron began to speak and Hamilton translated quickly.

The men were, shockingly, getting better at listening to orders. However, that didn’t necessarily mean they were much more organized than when Steuben had arrived just shy of a month before. Even though they were training every day and there had been improvements, they were not to the man’s standards. Which was made very clear by his angrily shouting, “ _Non! Non! Encore une fois!_ ”

Most of the men didn’t need to be fluent in French to know what that meant.

The particular drill they were working on was more difficult than usual, and the men were having trouble grasping it. Timing wasn’t the issue so much as grasping the formation itself was, and Steuben quickly grew tired of having to repeat himself.

“ _Vous garçons incompétents. Vous êtes inapte à combattre pour cette terre. Vous devriez accrocher à la jupe de votre mère, vous êtes tous les enfants, indignes de la confiance du pays! Encore une fois!_ ”

John sighed, scrubbed at his jaw. This was the exact sort of thing he had wished to avoid. He could feel Hamilton’s eyes on him, and didn’t need to look over to know there was a shit-eating grin on the other man’s face as he awaited John’s translation.

“He says you are incompetent, lads, and unfit to defend this land. The Baron also states that, if you do not wish to improve, perhaps you should still be hanging off your mother’s skirts like the children you are,” John vocalized loud enough for the men at the back of the formation to hear, “I suggest you tighten the formation this next time around. Again!”

He could hear Alexander snickering from the other side of Steuben and turned to glare at him. Hamilton shrugged as if he’d done nothing wrong before looking back to the troops and shouting translated commands as Steuben spoke them in the foreign tongue.

Training went on for hours, they cycled through different regiments and drilled the same formation over and over again with each until they were perfected. By their last of the day, Steuben had nearly had it. His insults tended to get progressively worse as the day went on, as the man grew more and more weary. Of course, the last few companies happened to be one of the weakest, which left Steuben three missteps from exploding.

The Baron would be fully replenished by the next day, but at the moment, he was stamping as he paced back and forth, jabbing his fingers at any mistakes made. His yelling fluctuated from French, which John could understand, into German, which John could only assume made the worst of his ranting untranslatable. That was, of course, until Steuben stopped in his tracks and shouted, in perfect French:

“ _Vos couilles ratatiner? Vous êtes tous un tas de chattes_.”

John’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide, and Hamilton’s strangled gasp sounded on his left. Slowly, he turned to the redhead, still in complete shock as their eyes met.

He shook his head and said just loud enough for Alexander to hear, “I am not saying that.” Hamilton agreed with an aggressive shake of his own head, his hand still clasped over his mouth as he had tried to stifle the animalistic noise he’d just made. Finally, after another brief moment of recuperating, John turned back to the men. “Again!” He shouted, because it was all he could manage.

The rest of the drilling went as smoothly as John could have hoped –– there were no other incidents with any outburst so vulgar John was unable to bring himself to translate… which, in his book, was a success in its own right.

Though the days seemed to blend together, John could always appreciate a beautiful sunset. He and Alexander were dismissed from Steuben’s tent just as the sun began to disappear behind the trees. They began their walk back toward the house, John’s eyes fixed on the horizon. The grey of winter was finally beginning to fade, the once dull sky replaced with vibrant hues of pink and purple. Bits of blue smattered the eastern sky where the light had yet to fade, and John watched as white clouds slowly transitioned into deep orange hues.

It took him a moment to feel Hamilton’s eyes on him. They’d been walking in silence for long enough that, with his focus elsewhere, John had nearly forgotten he was in Alexander’s company. “What?” he finally said as he did a double take, tearing his gaze away from the sunset and looking at Alexander.

“Nothing,” Alexander said quietly, brow slightly furrowed as he turned away. Hamilton looked up at the sky then. He chewed his lip for a moment before speaking quietly. “Tis a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

John’s eyes were still set on Alexander, studying the point of his nose and the way the fading light made the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks look like constellations as they just began to appear in the night sky.

He had always loved nature, always loved the effortless beauty of the flora and fauna he had surrounded himself in throughout his youth. But never before had John really thought to explore the effortless beauty there was to be found in people. Alexander had changed that.

They lived in a time where very few things could be beautiful. No, they were surrounded by war and famine and death; there was nothing romantic, nothing poetic, about those things, no matter how many men in the future would come to write sonnets and epics about a time they never experienced.

Amongst the desperation of the troops and the air that chilled John to the bone, however, he found beauty in Hamilton. In the intricacies of his mind, in the strength of his voice, in the ink-splatters on his fingers. There was little in this world John found worthy of admiration when every day was a struggle and yet, somehow he always found it in himself to adore the brilliant young man walking by his side. His best friend and, in some ways, so much more.

John’s gaze didn’t leave Alexander’s profile as he spoke. There would be more sunsets.

“Indeed, it is.”

They arrived back at the house just in time for supper with the General, his wife, and a number of other officers. It went smoothly, as usual, and before long John and Alexander had made their way back into their quarters. Both men tended to work well into the night, but on this particular evening, they decided to forego their usual workload to spend an evening on themselves.

Sometimes, after long days of working with Steuben, they just needed a break.

A blanket was spread across the cold floor and John crouched over it as he stoked the fire to life. Alexander was seated next to him, socked feet extended toward the warmth. As the fire settled into a steady crackle, John fell back until he was sitting down, his palms resting against the stone. He crossed his legs beneath him.

Alex stared into the fire, intent on it. It painted him flickers of yellow and orange and red, his hair glowing a few shades brighter once lit by complementary colors. “Do you think it will get easier?” he asked, still focused on the flames.

“What?” John asked, head lolling to the side so he could look at Alex.

The redhead bit his lip, holding it between his teeth for a moment before slowly releasing it. “When we win the war.” It was never _if_ with Alexander, it was always _when_. John loved that about him. John loved a lot of things about him.

He sighed. “I’m afraid your guess would be as good as mine,” John said as he finally pulled his gaze from Alexander’s profile and set it back on the fireplace, “Though I imagine it must. Tis what we’re fighting for, after all, isn’t it? For life to be easier for everyone. For a nation that respects the voice of its people.”

“Change is never easy,” Alexander said, and John couldn’t help but smile. He shook his head, unable to hold back the near-snort that passed his lips. Alexander turned to look at him, brows furrowed and tone exasperated, “Are you coming down with a cold?” John shook his head.

“No,” he laughed, glancing over at Alexander once more, “It simply astounds me how so much cynicism can fit in so small a frame.” Alexander gasped, swaying enough to shove John roughly.

“Scoundrel!” the younger accused as he rolled back to his original place and crossed his arms over his chest, brow firmly set.

John grinned at Alexander. “Can you blame me?” he asked, still trying to stifle his laughter, “One of the brightest minds in this army, if not this nation, just informed me _change is never easy_.” The joking tone fell as he paused and, when John began again, his line of vision was set on the bit of blanket between them. “Of course it isn’t –– nor will it be. But what do we fight for if not the right to progress? It is a right every person deserves, no matter their color or… anything else.”

Anything else.

Silence fell for a moment before Alexander huffed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You know I’m right,” John corrected, and he didn’t need to look over to tell Alexander was rolling his eyes. His lips twitched upward into a small smirk, the expression widening as he continued: “I apologize, Alexander. I didn’t mean to _slight_ you.”

He was only able to hold his laughter in for a few seconds, just long enough to hear the unbearably irritated groan that passed Alexander’s lips. It made him laugh harder.

“You _ass_.”

John could feel the daggers being shot at him, but was too busy hunched over in hysterics to realize Alexander had brought himself to his feet just enough to launch forward and knock him to the ground.

He fell back against the floor, coolness quickly raising goosebumps across his skin as Alexander clambered on top of him. Any trace of laughter fell away as Alexander’s legs settled against the sides of John’s hips and thin, deft fingers pinned John’s hands over his head by the wrist.

John’s chest rose and fell heavily, eyes wide as they met Alexander’s. By firelight, John could see the red in Alexander’s cheeks, the way he too was slightly panting.

“Take it back,” Alexander whispered. John could hardly bring himself to move, much less to speak, so he managed what he could: a fractional shake of his head.

Alexander’s gaze flickered downwards. John’s heart clenched.

The smaller man’s grip on his wrists loosened slightly as he leaned forward, closer. He repeated himself. “Take it back.” John shook his head again. One of Alexander’s hands slid down John’s arm slowly as he made his way closer still, chest almost completely pressed against the man beneath him as his fingertips softly pressed against John’s jaw.

His other hand moved in the opposite direction as John’s free hand found his waist, creeping upward until their fingers were slowly intertwining. Their noses bumped together and John’s eyelids fluttered, an unsteady breath escaping him. John could hear his heart pounding in his ears. It was loud enough that he was nearly sure Alexander could hear it, too –– or, at least feel it with the way their bodies were pressed against one another.

What they were doing was wrong –– it was a sin. But in this particular moment, with Alex’s body flush against his, with their hands clasped together above his head, with the way Alexander was looking down at him… John had never, not once, acted on the way he felt. He had been sure not to, as he knew what happened to men who did. Men like him.

But this was different. _Alexander_ was different.

John knew better than to let this go any further than it already had, yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. His grip at Alexander’s hip tightened as their noses nudged again, his body reacting in ways his quickly dwindling resolve couldn’t keep from stopping.

As Alexander spoke one final time, the blood in John’s ears almost kept him from hearing it. “Take. It. Back,” Alexander reiterated, voice hardly above a murmur. His words fell in soft breaths against John’s lips, pillowing there as John slowly tilted his chin upward.

“No.”

The distance closed between them, and Alexander’s lips pressed softly against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-))))))))))
> 
> Sorry about the horrible French. I tried. Also, I didn't directly translate most of Steuben's dialogue because a) it's probably incorrect and b) none of the soldiers would have understood unless they spoke French, so if you don't speak French, you don't get to either. Unless you decide to use Google Translate. Then you do.
> 
> As per usual, please let me know if there's anything I really messed up timeline-wise. The December-to-February time jump is the first of many. I'll try and make it as clear as possible when I do skips like that, but it's being done because it's just impossible for me to fit such an extensive amount of time into ten chapters. Please tell me if it gets confusing!
> 
> Special thanks to Asya (@communistbabe) for editing and Felix (@feliciores) for the forthcoming artwork.
> 
> twitter: @dearlaurens | tumblr: alexharnilton


	5. χαλου χαι αγαθου

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real.

John’s breath expelled in a sharp huff through his nose, his mouth otherwise occupied by the soft lips that moved against his. His brows furrowed and his hand clutched Alexander’s hip roughly, fingers pressed into the skin of the other’s back. Fingertips slid up John’s jaw until they were tangling in his hair, tugging at the brown locks and eliciting a noise from John he’d never made before.

Alexander parted his lips, and suddenly what felt like a dream became very, very real.

With his head against the floor, there wasn’t much John could do in regards to pulling away. He squeezed Alexander’s side as he turned his head, a ragged breath passing his lips. John knew better than to let this continue. It shouldn’t have started in the first place.

“Alex-”

“Don’t,” Alexander whispered. He’d pulled away no more than a fraction of an inch, the hand in John’s hair moving back down to his cheek, forcing John’s face back toward him. John couldn’t look at Alexander, not now, not when they’d just kissed, when it was taking everything in John’s power not to kiss him again. Alexander leaned in again and pressed a small kiss to John’s cheek and another few along his jaw until he was burying his face in John’s neck. His words were soft, just loud enough for John to hear.

“Don’t take this back.”

John closed his eyes, the hand intertwined in Alexander’s slowly pulling from the redhead’s grip. He hesitated for a moment before wrapping both arms around Alexander’s slim waist, breath hitching as lips pressed against his neck. “We can’t, Alexander,” he sighed, pained as his cheek pressed against the side of Alexander’s head, “It goes against the word of God, tis a sin, tis-” Alexander pulled from his neck then, propping himself up just enough to speak.

“Have we not killed men? Is that not also against the word of God? If we are to sin, to be damned for the frauds we commit whilst living, who is to say that this sin –– should it even be so –– holds any more weight in this eyes of the Lord than taking the life of another?”

John sighed, shaking his head fractionally. This was hardly the time to be arguing — and certainly not in such a position, Alexander still in his arms, lips mere inches from his. “We have no choice in that matter,” John shot back, still unable to look at Alexander, “We have to do right by our country, it is not such-”

“And have you a choice in this?” Alexander asked, fingers once again carding through John’s hair, “Truly?” John was incredibly conscious of the position they were in, the slight frame against his and the fire lighting the room warming him all over.

He exhaled, turning his head away as much as Alexander would allow him. Even if Alexander was right, and he was… it didn’t matter. Not having control over who he was attracted to meant nothing. John didn’t have to act on what he felt — he shouldn’t have. Feeling it in the first place was bad enough.

He’d been damned long before he ever killed a man.

“It matters not,” John managed after a long moment of silence, “How can you be so unaffected by this? How can you act as though even the _thought_ of this isn’t wrong, much less act on said thought?”

Alexander sighed, both hands moving to cup John’s cheeks and force the man to look at him again. Once John had finally met Alexander’s gaze, the younger man closed the distance between them again, the pads of his thumbs running softly along John’s cheeks. Alexander pulled away just enough to speak a few seconds later, nudging John’s nose with his.

John should have ended this already, he knew that. He knew remaining where he was –– pinned under the lean hips of his best friend, of a man he respected and adored and, dammit, wanted to kiss over and over again until his lips went numb –– only furthered the issue.

“If the Lord had truly intended for this to be a sin, why would he allow us to feel this way in the first place?”

“The whole purpose of our Earthly lives is to remain steadfast amidst temptation, Alexander,” John sighed. The words were heavy on his tongue. It felt more as though he had repeated his father’s words more so than he was saying anything he actually meant. He looked up at Alexander, a hand moving from his waist upwards to push a red lock of hair out of his eyes. “And this particular temptation would have us sent to the gallows.”

Alexander rested his forehead against John’s, eyes half-lidded. “We face death every day. What does one more method of doing so add to the list?”

It was, in some twisted way, a fair point. To die for one’s country, John could understand. Of course he was willing to give his life for freedom. If love was freedom, would he not be willing to die for that, too? He could. He could die for love. But that admission was far from leaving his lips and, instead, John rolled his eyes. ”And I’m told _I’m_ reckless… ”

Alexander laughed.

John tilted his head up and kissed Alexander slowly until the sound fell away from his lips.

-

“Come on, John, get up,” Alexander urged. John could hear him cross the room and groaned as Alexander’s hands shoved at his shoulder, “Tis well past day break and you’ve yet to get out of bed.”

John groaned, scrubbing at his eyes as he arched his back to stretch awake. “Can you blame me?” he asked as he slowly sat up, “You kept me up half the night as you refused to come to bed and the other half by constantly shoving the icicles you call feet under my legs. I had only just begun to rest when you were up writing again.”

“You can hardly blame me for being cold!”

“No, but I can blame you for insisting on not wearing socks like a smart man would,” John shot back as he lifted his arms over his head and continued his morning stretch. His eyes had hardly opened yet, but he could see Alexander getting dressed through his lashes and smiled softly as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned back against the wall. “You would do well to get over your aversion to wearing socks to bed, lest we both end up with frostbitten toes.”

John opened his eyes as he heard footsteps nearing, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as Alexander’s legs bumped against his knees. He quirked a brow as he pushed himself off the wall and toward the end of his bed, Alexander still stood at his feet.

“What?” he asked, reaching out to shove at Alexander’s hips. The smaller stumbled back a bit and John finally stood, tugging his shirt over his head to change it for his cleaner one.

“Nothing, nothing,” Alexander replied flippantly as he stepped forward once more, placing his hands on John’s hips, just above his underdrawers.

John chuckled, lifting his hands to cup Alexander’s cheeks. “Were you not just scolding me for not being ready?”

“I was.”

Alexander tilted his head into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed and lips parting as John leaned in close. Their noses bumped and John smirked, stalling the kiss. The redhead opened his eyes.

“Then I should do so,” John sniggered, lengthening the distance between them as he dropped his hands back to his sides. Alexander scoffed and shoved at John’s good shoulder.

“Scoundrel,” he muttered, but John was too busy laughing and rummaging for his clean shirt to dignify a proper response.

Though it hadn’t been long since their first kiss, John had at least tried to take some of what Alexander had said to heart. He knew there was no changing what he felt — what _they_ felt — and denying himself was one thing, but to deny Alexander? Well, that was something else entirely.

Of course, he wasn’t really able to put the truth from his mind; what they were doing was wrong and, should anyone find out…

They had settled into a strange sort of routine since that first night. Their days went about mostly as usual, give or take the stolen glances and the bumping of feet beneath the dining table. But once they were alone in their quarters, it was different.

Alexander hadn’t spent a moment in his own bed since that first night. They slept in John’s bed, tangled beneath the piles of blankets, messing around like they always did –– but not without a few kisses in between. They hadn’t done more than that yet; not for lack of want, just lack of John’s being comfortable with doing so. He wanted to, of course he did. But wanting to do something and actually crossing that line were two very different things, and John couldn’t bring himself to do the latter. Yet.

It was enough of a risk as it was, doing what they were. The General was just across the hall, another officer a room over. They saw hundreds of men each day –– one wrong word, one wrong move and they could be cast out of the army, cast out of society, or cast in a way no man would see a fitting punishment.

Whatever they had was good, but it wouldn’t last forever. John knew that.

He found his clean shirt and slipped it over his head, turning around and scanning the floor for his breeches. Typically, he folded them and left them on the chair, but they’d been discarded in some haste the night before and had been cast across the room. Still, they were nowhere to be seen now… John glanced at Alexander, who was glaring at him… and holding the breeches John had been seeking out.

“Hey,” John said as he closed the distance between them again. Alexander said nothing, simply continued to shoot daggers in John’s direction, even as John placed his hands on either side of Alexander’s neck and rubbed his thumbs over the smaller man’s jaw. John leaned in, all teasing aside, and pressed his lips to Alexander’s softly.

Out of stubbornness, it took Alexander a moment before he truly began kissing back, fabric hitting the floor by their feet as his hands moved to rest against John’s hips. Alexander parted his lips as John pulled away, holding on to the prospect of more kissing just long enough for John to see the look on his face. John nudged Alexander’s nose with his before resting their foreheads together, one of his thumbs moving to trail softly across Alexander’s pouted bottom lip.

“Good morning,” John whispered, smiling softly. The corners of Alexander’s lips twitched upwards briefly before he pursed them to press a small kiss to the pad of John’s thumb.

“You’re still a scoundrel.”

John grinned, unable to suppress the laugh that bubbled in his chest. He moved his thumb so he could kiss Alexander again quickly before dropping down to grab his breeches off the floor. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said as he stepped into them and tucked his shirt into the waist.

“You’re going to be late,” Alexander informed, leaning against a chair and watching John as he dressed.

“I know that. As are you, if you continue to stand here and watch.”

Alexander laughed, but made no motion to move. John got ready relatively quickly, opting not to powder his hair as they were already late (and running out of powder, anyway). John quickly pulled on his boots, his vest, and his coat before glaring playfully at Alexander as he tied and tucked his cravat.

“Are you ready?” Alexander asked, feigning annoyance as he picked at his fingernails absentmindedly. John gave him a look.

“You could have gone without me,” John sniped, “You chose to wait.” Alexander smirked but said nothing as he walked past John and toward the door. He opened it, holding it for John as they exited the room and headed downstairs.

Headquarters were usually busy in the mornings, but not… not like this. There was a heavy air about the house, as if they’d missed something. It was busier than usual for the hour, the rooms crowded with various officers and aides that didn’t typically frequent the building. John looked to Alexander, brows furrowed, before grabbing the arm of Tench Tilghman and stopping his fellow aide mid-step.

“The hell is going on?” John asked, Tilghman’s eyes going wide as he came to a halt.

“Colonel Burr court martialed Lieutenant Enslin,” Tilghman informed as he glanced down to where John’s hand was still firmly clasped around his bicep. 

He was about to continue when Alexander gripped John’s shoulder, pulling him back just enough to look at the third aide. “On what grounds?” he asked incredulously, “And why are we only just hearing about this?”

“Apparently Burr wanted the confidence of only the General himself until a decision had been made.”

“A decision on what?” John pressed further, gaze intent on Tilghman’s face. “What was Enslin charged with?”

Tilghman pursed his lips, eyes shifting as though the rest of the nearly frantic men in the room had no idea what was going on when, in reality, it seemed the only men that didn’t know where the ones he was speaking to. Tilghman exhaled slowly.

“Sodomy.”

John’s jaw dropped. Alexander’s grip loosened on his shoulder.

The redhead spoke first. “ _What?_ ”

“One of Burr’s men approached him with the accusation a couple of weeks ago, said Enslin had… attempted to…” Tilghman shook his head, “When approached, Enslin claimed it was slander and Burr court martialed the boy instead, until he realized it was Enslin who had been lying. He came to the General this morning requesting Enslin’s discharge.”

“And?” Alexander asked. John still hadn’t spoken –– he was unable to speak. He could hardly move, his hand still clasped around Tilghman’s arm, jaw still slightly agape.

“And I believe the Commander is signing the discharge papers now.”

John blinked a few times. He dropped his hand from Tilghman’s arm and swallowed hard, exhaling raggedly through his nose. “If you’ll excuse me,” he managed, quickly patting the aide’s shoulder. He avoided Alexander’s gaze as he navigated his way through a number of officers and exited the house.

His back hit the brick of the breezeway and his hand tangled in his hair. John’s breathing came in short, shaky gulps as he forced his eyes closed, focusing on the black behind his eyelids. He was only alone for a moment, however, as the door from the house opened once more. Instantly, John was pulling himself together, pushing himself up off the wall and dropping his hand back down to his side.

Alexander stood on the steps for a moment before he crossed the small space. “John,” he said as he approached, placing his hands lightly on John’s chest, “Tis-”

John’s hands wrapped around Alexander’s wrists and pulled them from his chest.

“Don’t touch me.”

Hurt visibly flashed across Alexander’s face as his hands fell back down to his sides. He took a step back. John dropped his gaze and raked his hand through his hair once again, his teeth catching his bottom lip.

“John,” Alexander repeated, “Tis nothing we can do to stop this. It is a blessing the General has decided not to punish the man further. He has no choice in his action with Burr pushing the matter.”

John laughed bitterly as he looked to Alexander again, “And if Burr should find out about us? Or one of the other officers? Then what? Were we not just upstairs doing the very same that this man will be drummed out for?”

“Not the _very_ same…”

“Tis not the point!” John said, a bit louder than he’d intended, “We are lucky to be in the General’s good graces, but we push that luck by continuing… whatever it is we’re doing.”

“And we deemed it a necessary risk!” Alexander shot back, stepping forward to take John’s face in his hands, “Do you think I cannot see the threat of us being found out? Do you think I am blind to it?” John curled his fingers around Alexander’s wrists, ready to pull them away again, but Alexander continued, “We are not officers of higher rank consorting with common soldiers, John. And we have yet to do anything of the nature this man is being held accountable for. Nor have either of us done anything without the consent of the other.”

“We could lose everything, Alexander.”

Alexander shook his head. “Not everything.”

John’s gaze dropped. He squeezed Alexander’s wrists lightly as he sighed, unable to find any words.

“Come,” Alexander said softly, dropping his hands from John’s cheeks, “Let us go back inside before anyone notices we’re gone.” John nodded, sighing as Alexander turned on his heel and headed back toward the house. He followed in silence, stepping through the door as Alexander held it open for him.

As he reentered the house, his eyes locked with the General’s, who was watching him pointedly from over the shoulder of Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Burr.

-

It was June.

Since the coming of spring, the Continental army found itself stronger, healthier, and more apt to handle the oncoming war. The men were ready to fight. John found himself beginning to wage a different battle, one with his father and with Congress.

The British had increased their presence in the South. With men unwilling to enlist, John had written to his father proposing the use of his slaves –– who were to be inherited by John after the man’s death –– as a small brigade. If they were armed, if they fought for their country, they would be granted their freedom. That, John explained, was the very least payment that could be offered.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Just a bad time to propose it.

His father had granted John’s request, but his approval was not really behind the scheme. John found himself putting off the project despite his want to free the men his father kept in his forced employment. One day, John would see to it that those enslaved in the South would be freed; whether this was via their service in the army or some other means, John was yet to find out.

The hiatus and the endless winter were both over, Valley Forge in the distance. The British had begun their retreat of Philadelphia, and the Americans trailed behind them. The General was ready, poised to attack the British forces as they moved.

This was not, of course, done without some opposition.

General Charles Lee did not think attacking the British was a good idea. In fact, he thought it was a rather horrible one, as he made very clear by vehemently suggesting they sent light forces to attack the British column instead of making an outright charge on them. Despite having been given the initial command of the advance force, Lee continued to doubt the Commander’s orders and was eventually replaced by none other than the Marquis de Lafayette.

“Tis quite the responsibility, Lafayette,” John joked as he suited his horse, readying her for the ride, “You would do well not to get shot this time, with so many men under your word.”

Lafayette laughed. “This, coming from you, _mon cher_? I have never seen a man more willing to be shot in my life. Such advice from you is… is...”

“Like having a blind man tell you how to see,” Alexander offered with a smirk, “A hypocrite’s word means nothing at all. Though you would both do well not to be shot. As will I. I think it best we try not to make a tradition of it.”

“Hear, hear,” John chuckled, patting his horse a couple of times.

Lafayette was just about to speak once more when he paused, straightening to attention. John looked over his shoulder to see the General approaching and echoed Lafayette’s motion. From his peripheral vision, he could see Alexander do the same.

“At ease, boys,” Washington commanded. The three young men relaxed as the General stepped toward Lafayette. “I am afraid I must inform you, Lafayette, that General Lee has insisted upon taking charge of the advancing forces once more. He seems more ardent to be in command now the number of forces has been increased to 5,000. You will remain on reserve with the rest of his troops.”

John tried not to notice the disappointment as it briefly flashed across Lafayette’s face. “Of course, your Excellency. It only seems fitting, as it was his command to begin with.” The Commander smiled lightly at the Frenchman, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”

“It will not be the last,” the General assured him before turning to John, “Colonel Laurens.”

“Sir.”

“I expect your ride with von Steuben to run smoothly. I look forward to seeing you at the rendezvous point before the main attack,” Washington said, giving John a look that he couldn’t quite read.

John nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He glanced at Alexander, “We will go over any changes that need to be made before we set out.” Alexander nodded, and the General stepped back. The three men brought themselves to attention again, bowing their heads as Washington made his way back toward camp.

As their bodies relaxed, Alexander smirked, “Look at that, John. Even the General is worried about you.”

“Tis an unfair judgement!” John insisted, “I am not the only one here to have been shot. Lafayette just took a metaphorical bullet, did he not?” He turned to look at Lafayette, who was glaring at him. “General Lee’s hesitance is not an admirable quality. I don’t doubt you will find yourself in command yet again when he changes his mind in… oh, fifteen minutes?”

Lafayette scoffed and shoved at his shoulder, “Let us hope that is not the case. It has been a long winter, indeed. We need to secure this victory, not fight amongst ourselves.”

“Wisely said,” Hamilton agreed, reaching up to pat Lafayette’s shoulder, “And worry not, dear Lafayette, the General is right. I doubt it not that you will find yourself in command again soon.”

The Frenchman smirked. “Oh, sweetest Hamilton, _merci_. It is good to know you shall be out in the field with us, too.” Alexander grinned. John did not.

“While I would love to stay and chat,” John sighed, “I must meet with General Steuben before we begin our ride. So I am afraid I must bid you fellows _adieu_.”

“Ah! Oui, of course,” Lafayette smiled, placing a hand on John’s shoulder as he pressed soft kisses to each of his cheeks, “Do be careful, _mon frère_.”

“I shall do my very best.”

“Tis all I ask,” the young man smiled, patting his shoulder again lightly before stepping back. He looked to Hamilton as he made his way to John, smiling softly before quickly turning on his heel and heading back toward the camp.

He knew they needed a moment alone.

Alexander sighed. John placed his hand on Alexander’s cheek, thumb rubbing softly over the bone. They stood there, unmoving, for just a moment before Alexander was wrapping his arms around John’s waist and resting his head against his chest.

“Be safe,” Alexander whispered, hands fisted into the fabric of John’s coat.

“You said that last time,” John noted with a small smile. He rubbed Alexander’s back softly, cheek pressed to the side of the shorter man’s head.

Alexander scoffed, “And you refused to listen. I expect you to this time. For my sake, if not for your own.”

John sighed softly as he pulled from the embrace, eyes locking with Alexander’s. “I promise I will try to remain out of all bullet trajectories, Alexander. For your sake, as well as mine.”

“Thank you,” Alexander replied quietly. He leaned up on his toes to press a soft kiss to John’s cheek, the corners of their lips just grazing as he pulled away. “And, before you say it –– yes, I swear the same. For your sake, as well as mine.” John half smiled, lightly pushing at Alexander’s shoulder.

“Go on,” he chuckled, “I must ride.”

Alexander found his hand and quickly squeezed it before heading back toward the tent. John watched him disappear inside as he mounted his horse and began to ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYO! It's my first official late chapter. I know, I know. It's technically Thursday. Sorry about that.
> 
> The chapter title is a reference to a phrase in a letter sent from Laurens to Hamilton that essentially means "beautiful and good" and is pretty widely accepted (to my knowledge) as historical gay code. So, you know, just dudes being guys.
> 
> As always, if there's anything I've really messed up, please let me know and I'll try to fix it.
> 
> Special thanks to Kelsea (@werewolfau) for editing this week and Felix (@feliciores) for forthcoming artwork.
> 
> twitter: @dearlaurens | tumblr: alexharnilton
> 
> UPDATE: Hey, guys, I know it's been a while since I've posted a new chapter, and I'm really sorry about that. My life is kind of in shambles right now and I need to focus on getting my shit together before I feel like I'm ready to write again. I don't want to put out something that seems sub-par to me and, while I do apologize for the wait, I promise it'll be worth it. Thanks so much for reading and I can't wait to see what you guys think of the rest of the story. –– Jack


	6. On the Subject of Charles Lee

“Jack,” Alexander said, a full two paces behind him as he navigated his way through the thick trees. “Jack!”

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t you ‘Jack’ me, Alexander.”

He could hear Alexander quickening his pace to almost a run so he could catch up. “Then perhaps you should stop for a moment and listen to me!” John let out an exasperated sigh, turning on his heel quickly enough that Alexander practically slammed into him. Alexander took a step back, resituating himself and glaring at John with an indignant upturn of his chin. “You know this is stupid,” he huffed, “Even for you.”

“I resent that,” John shot back, heel digging into the ground again as he began to pivot toward the path they’d been walking down. Alexander caught his arm, preventing him from turning back all the way. His deep blue eyes bore into John’s, forcing John to let out a sigh and, at least for the moment, pause.

Alexander let out a small breath through his nose, the tight grip around John’s bicep unrelenting. “Will you just take a moment, please?” There was a hint of pleading under the guise of Alexander’s disgruntled tone, but it was his eyes that gave him away. John softened. What choice did he have?

Instantly, Alexander continued before John could bring himself to argue again. Damn him. “John,” he said on an exhale, gaze still intent on John’s face, “I… If something happens –”

“Nothing is going to happen,” John interrupted, jaw clenching as Alexander pursed his lips.

“If something happens… and somehow this is the last day your mortal soul spends on this Earth, if this is the last day I get to spend with you, at least allow me to…” Alexander trailed off, voice lowering as he glowered accusingly, “Why are you smiling?”

John had done his best not to laugh, but the corners of his mouth had upturned enough to be noticeable, anyway. “I’ve yet to tell you how ridiculously dramatic you are today.”

“I am being serious!” Alexander defended, his free hand smacking John across his chest. John was still laughing as his hand caught Alexander’s wrist and held it in place there. The smaller man let out a couple of frustrated breaths through his nose, still tense.

“As am I,” John retorted, trying his best to regain some semblance of composure, “If something does happen, I need to know that I didn’t forego telling you such an important detail on the last day my mortal soul spends on this Earth.”

It was Alexander’s turn to roll his eyes, his hand lightly hitting John on the chest once more. “And the crab spoke thus,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his tone. 

“Does that make you the snake?” John asked, a brow raising. Alexander looked away, his gaze falling and jaw tightening simultaneously. John sighed, reaching a hand up to cup Alexander’s cheek. “Alex,” he began quietly, “Listen to me. I have to do this. Lee must be punished for the things he said about Washington. And he’s waiting for us. If I’d thought you were going to be so apprehensive about participating…”

Alexander gave him a look. They both knew there was no one else John would ever have chosen to be his second –– in a duel, or in life. And, heaven forbid something did happen, he needed to have Alexander there. For both of their sakes.

Perhaps he had gotten in over his head when challenging General Lee to a duel post his Court Martial in July. Perhaps he hadn’t thought it through rationally; but what did being rational matter? If no one else was going to make Lee pay for what he’d done, John had been prepared to take it into his own hands. He wasn’t going to allow anyone to publish such slander about Washington, nor was he going to allow Lee to live the rest of his life without paying for the fact that he had.

It wasn’t his place, and John knew that. But he’d gone to court against Lee once before and held his own just fine. Who was to say that, six months later, in the middle of the woods on a cold December afternoon, he wouldn’t be able to do the same? He was willing to risk his life for the honor of the ones he cared about. Washington was high-ranked on that list.

“I’m not apprehensive about the duel,” Alexander replied, his hand curling in the lining of John’s coat, “I’m simply… worried, Jack. About you.”

“You needn’t worry about me. With any luck, his gun won’t even fire.”

Alexander scoffed. “With _your_ luck, his bullet will hit you right between the eyes.”

He paused for a moment, then tacked on: “And if he kills you, John, so help me, I shall bring you back to life just to kill you myself.”

John smiled lightly and tried not to chuckle, leaning in to rest his forehead against Alexander’s. Puffs of cold air passed between their lips before dissipating into the forest around them. Alexander let out a ragged sigh, his eyelids fluttering closed. John watched, his teeth tugging his bottom lip between them. “We should go,” he whispered after a moment, “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re already late,” the smaller man replied just as quietly, “Just stay here a moment.”

It was no surprise to John that his resolve had weakened so drastically, not with Alexander’s lips so close to his, warm breath billowing against his lips in small bursts. He watched Alexander, whose eyes were still closed, lips parted just so...

He leaned in to warm those slightly purpled lips with his own, arms enveloping Alexander as the man relaxed into him. Fingers crept up to curl in his lapels and, before he knew it, he was stumbling backwards until his back hit a tree. John grunted at the contact, the sound muffled into Alexander’s fervent kisses.

When Alexander pulled away, there was something in his eyes that John couldn’t quite read. It was a mix between desperation and… something else entirely. Something John was too caught up in the kiss that had just transpired to try and decipher. He was brought back to reality instantly as Alexander’s gloved fingers dropped from his coat and down to the waistband of his breeches.

John’s jumped, eyes widening in shock. “Alex –” he began, unsure of where the rest of the statement was headed. Alexander looked up at him, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“If this is truly the last day your mortal soul spends on Earth,” he offered, pupils dark as he slowly dropped down to his knees, “At least allow me to make it a memorable one.”

-

At the center of the clearing waited none other than Charles Lee, dishonored General and opposer of Washington. To his right was Evan Edwards, steadfast supporter of Lee. As John and Alexander made their way into the clearing, the sun beginning to sink lower into the western sky (they ended up being _much_ later than anticipated), Lee smiled almost wickedly, waving a hand in their direction.

“Ah, Colonel Laurens. Colonel Hamilton. How lovely it is of you to join us. Major Edwards here was beginning to think you had decided not to show.”

John cocked his head. “We do apologize for our tardiness,” he offered, “The directions you offered us seemed to have sent us awry. Perhaps a more sufficient mapping would have allowed us to arrive in a timely manner.”

Of course, the real reason for their being late had nothing to do with the map. But John wasn’t about to regale a tale of trembling hands and desperate mouths in the cold woods to a man like Lee. Hell, he wouldn’t tell such a story to anyone. No, that memory would be only his own –– and Alexander’s –– to keep.

“Nevertheless,” Lee replied, a tight and thin-lipped smile tapering off at the corners of his mouth, “I do hope you’re prepared. Despite your belated arrival.” He waved a hand and Edwards brought forth two pistols in a polished box.

“Have you a preference for proceeding?” Alexander asked, the question directed at Lee though he was still poised at John’s side. Evans glanced up at Alexander, nodding almost appreciatively as he helped John and Lee situate themselves with their braces.

Lee tilted his head to one side as he weighed his pistol in his hand. John dropped his down to his side. “I suppose,” Lee began, still examining the gun, “We should begin facing each other, about twenty paces apart, and fire when we deem appropriate. What say you, Colonel Laurens?”

His nonchalance grated John’s patience.

John wasn’t about to let him take note of it, however, and replied in a manner just as blasé. “I concur with you, sir. Tis my preferred mode, as well.”

“Then so it shall be,” Edwards offered. He moved further into the clearing and measured twenty paces from one end of it to the other, directing Lee to stand on one side and John to stand on the opposite. John took his place, finger absentmindedly twitching against the pistol’s trigger, his eyes intent on Lee. He could feel Alexander’s gaze set on him, could feel the worry practically radiating off of him. Vaguely, John wondered if Edwards or Lee could feel it, too.

Someone’s voice, an echo in the distance, commenced the duel. John and Lee approached each other quickly, wide strides closing them in as they both lifted their guns. Just as John pulled the trigger, Lee’s bullet whizzed past him and rustled the bushes of the tree behind him.

His own found purchase in Lee himself, and it took John a moment to process that the older man had fallen to the ground. 

Lee cried out in pain, gripping his side. Instantly, John rushed over, pistol still in his hand. Edwards and Alexander were there just as quickly, Edwards assisting Lee in sitting up as Alexander placed a warning hand against John’s chest. John took a step back and pretended not to notice the flicker of something other than concern in Alexander’s eyes.

Had he really shot a General, a man once esteemed by the entire Continental army? Had he really shot a man twenty years his senior, a decorated soldier who outranked him in both life and war experience? Yes.

Had he found himself regretting any actions leading up to this particular moment? Not at all.

“Alas,” Lee said after a moment, levying off of Edwards’ arm to get to his feet, “Tis not as bad as I had initially anticipated. We can bout again.”

Alexander and Edwards exchanged a glance. “I hardly think that’s necessary,” Edwards offered, arm sliding out from around Lee’s waist as the man found himself able to stand on his own once more.

“Nevertheless,” Lee continued, “I propose a second discharge.”

“By all means, sir,” John replied, unrelenting. He wasn’t going to back down now, not if there was a chance that he could double the damage done. If the old man wanted to go again, so be it.

He could practically see the cogs in Alexander’s mind churning, albeit a bit desperately, as he glanced at John. Before either party could continue to speak or reload, Alexander looked toward Lee once more. “The affair has been resolved, there is no need for a second round,” he said, “Unless your motivation to continue is out of personal opinion, sir, and you have lost sight of this event’s original purpose.” Alexander hesitated, very pointedly not looking at John before he continued. “That being said, Colonel Laurens has agreed to a second round and, if that is his wish, I find myself unable to oppose it for the sake of my own beliefs.”

John knew that he wasn’t going to hear the end of it from Alexander later, should there be a later. But, for the moment, that didn’t matter.

“Then we shall proceed,” Lee said, hand still poised at his side.

Edwards spoke then, eyes darting between both parties. “General, I do believe the case should end here. Colonel Hamilton made a valid point; the issue with which the duel was drawn up has since been settled. There is no reason to reload.”

Silence fell between the two opposers, their eyes locked. After a moment, Lee sighed and gave Edwards’ shoulder a light pat, though his eyes were still fixed on John. “Had these two noble seconds not been so concerned for our well-being, I surely believe we would draw again. But seeing as they are men of honor, I propose we allow them to come to a conclusion. I shall agree to whatever terms they deem appropriate.”

_Coward._

“As shall I,” John replied, nodding to Lee. He thought he heard a collective sigh of relief from both Alexander and Edwards. Maybe his ears were playing tricks on him.

“Allow us a moment to discuss the terms,” Alexander offered, “We shall retreat to the woods and return momentarily.” Edwards nodded in agreement and the two disappeared beyond the treeline.

Silence consumed John and the General once their seconds were gone. They didn’t even exchange glances, simply stood at a bit of a distance from each other in the open field, awaiting a verdict on a seemingly completed trial. John knew what the outcome would be; neither Alexander or Edwards wanted things to escalate any further. Though he understood their reasoning, he couldn’t help but want to go again. Especially not when Lee seemed so eager.

Eventually, the two returned. By then, the sun was almost dipped beyond the horizon. It was Edwards who spoke, his words firm. “Colonel Hamilton and I have decided to terminate the duel here. All affairs of honor have been settled and the case can come to a close. Do you both consent to this?”

“Yes,” Lee said, glancing at John.

“I do,” John replied simultaneously, his own gaze fixed on Alexander.

Edwards nodded and expelled a long breath. “Then we have reached the end of this trial. I suggested to Colonel Hamilton that we all go back to town together as one party since he and Colonel Laurens ran into difficulty while attempting to get here.”

The corners of Alexander’s mouth twitched upwards and John had to hide his smirk. “An excellent idea, Major Edwards,” John managed, “Your generosity is greatly appreciated.”

There was, of course, an irony to them uniting as one party when, clearly, Lee and Laurens were anything but. They had agreed to stick to the terms their seconds had come up with, though, and both were men of their word. As they headed back toward town, they paired off in the obvious duos. Edwards and Lee walked behind, as Lee’s injury seemed to have slowed him down considerably.

Alexander scolded him quietly up ahead, but there was a look in his eyes that told John his reprimanding was merely for appearances.

Maybe, when that ‘later’ finally came around, John would be hearing a very different set of words than the ones he’d been anticipating.

\-- They had spent the new year in each other’s arms but, come March, everything changed. Finally, John had been called South. He was getting the chance he’d been lobbying for, to go back to South Carolina and head up a regiment of enslaved men whom, upon completing their service, would be granted their freedom. As gratifying as such a step forward was, it did mean one thing that John wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about: leaving Alexander.

John sighed, the breath passing his lips in a huff so heavy it forced him to stagger back a step.

Goodbyes, he thought, were a funny thing. Saying goodbye to Martha hadn’t been too difficult. Part of him knew it should have been, but his guilt toward her manifested itself more in the life he’d forced himself into than it did the woman who had taken his name. Still, a meaningless goodbye was still better than no goodbye at all. John shouldn’t have had to say goodbye to Jemmy. Even so, he never got the chance. And that… That was his fault.

But this was different. He’d never had to say goodbye to someone like this. He’d never had to say goodbye to Alexander, who was currently looking at him with very carefully guarded devastation pooling in those deep blue eyes of his, the corners of his lips twitching downward every so often before he forced them back up again.

A stiff upper lip, as John’s father would say, was key.

Alexander stepped closer to him, his signature look of fierce determination returning after his brief moment of vulnerability. “I’ll join you as soon as the General grants me -”

“Alexander. I know.”

John smiled softly. The expression hurt to even attempt, it made his throat close and his chest tighten and his jaw clench. Alexander let out a nearly indignant huff, but the sound fell short. The smaller man’s gaze fell to the ground for a moment, shoulders rising and falling slowly as he attempted to regulate his breathing. John couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He didn’t know when he’d get to see Alexander again.

He didn’t know _if_ he’d get to see Alexander again.

Silence fell between them. It was heavy, thick, foreign. Very little time in the presence of Alexander was spent in silence. While it cloaked them, John could see why. Alexander looked up at him again, that same desperation in his eyes as just a moment before. It bore into John, who let out another ragged breath as he finally reached out for Alexander.

They crashed into each other, Alexander’s small frame quickly enveloped in John’s arms. One of Alexander’s hands fisted in the lining of John’s coat, the other draped over his shoulder. John could feel Alexander’s lips as they ghosted just above his collar and goosebumps rose over his skin. For a moment, nothing but that embrace tethered John to the world. For a moment, it was just them.

And John knew he would never have that moment again.

When they finally broke apart, it was only fractional. Neither of them could stand to lose contact completely; they were still in each other’s space, still holding onto each other like they’d drift away otherwise. John’s hand moved to grip the back of Alexander’s neck, fingers slipping between his curls, and Alexander pressed his palm to John’s cheek.

“Write as often as time permits,” John said quietly, his tone hollow.

“Each day,” Alexander promised, “Until we meet again.”

Once again, John smiled. It took everything he had to do so. He took a step back, hand slowly slipping from Alexander’s neck until it fell limp back to his side. Alexander’s hand remained half-poised in the air as though it was still touching John’s cheek, unblinking as distance finally made its way between them. “Until then, my dear boy.”

Yes. Goodbyes were a funny thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> YOU GUYS. I DON'T KNOW IF ANYONE IS STILL READING THIS. BUT HI.
> 
> As per usual, I've taken some artistic liberties with the history. Not too many this time around, but I've gotta put the disclaimer out there, anyway.
> 
> The past ten months of my life have been wild and I'm terribly sorry I haven't updated sooner but, y'know. #Priorities. This chapter was stumping me for the longest time and got rewritten almost entirely like ??? Four times???
> 
> I went back and did some super minor edits in earlier chapters that I don't think anyone would really notice, but they helped spark my muse and now, a few thousand words later, we're back in business.
> 
> Anyway, I'm not going to promise weekly updates anymore because I'm a solid 40 weeks overdue at the moment, but I am going to promise to try and get each chapter from here on out as soon as I can. Just bear with me. Thanks so much, y'all.
> 
> –– J.
> 
> twitter: @TlMKON | tumblr: majorandre


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